


When We Hit The Twin Cities

by allegheny



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: 2018-2019 MLB Offseason, Chronic Pain, Concussions, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minnesota Twins, New York Mets, Parallel careers, Recreational Drug Use, baseball thoughts, bygone eras and faces of the franchise, goody two shoes and captains, handjobs, mention of irl family members, retirement fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-01-24 01:58:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18561628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allegheny/pseuds/allegheny
Summary: I was half dead, then I got born againI got lost in all the lights, but it was okay in the end.When Joe gets back in touch with an old World Baseball Classic teammate in the twilight of their careers, he finds a kindred soul.





	When We Hit The Twin Cities

_PHOENIX, AZ. Team USA @ Team Italy. 2013 World Baseball Classic._

Joe doesn't see the ball sail because he's running with his head down, but he knows it's gone from the roar of the crowd. He turns around at home plate and there Wright is, stoic-faced, trotting and ready to deliver his high-fives. When he gets to Joe, he looks up at the crowd and his eyes catch the light and he looks like a bewildered child for a moment. He raises the wrong arm and taps the heel of Joe's extended hand. Joe barely notices.  
After the game they talk and talk and talk, just like they've done every single night since getting to Arizona.

Then the injury. And Wright is gone, shipped back to New York.

“Hey, just checking up on you. I hope you’re fine.”

“I will be, don’t worry. I always get back up!”

He gets back up. Joe makes the All-Star team, sees him at workouts, waves awkwardly.  
Two months later Joe gets hit by a foul tip in a game against the Mets where Wright isn't even playing and nothing is ever the same again after that.

 

——

 

“And lastly my family and friends... Mom... Dad...”

Wright's voice breaks. There's a sob. He tries to composes himself, fails, buries his face in a towel.  
Joe doesn't know why he decided he'd put ESPN on for this, but he can’t take his eyes off the screen. It’s like a car crash.

“A lot of times... my mind and my heart were telling me one thing, and my body was telling me something completely different.”

Joe feels sick to his stomach. It feels wrong to hear Wright says those words. It was always like he could come back from anything. He always got back up.

"... and certainly the games became, for me, more of... just let me get through this, and survive it."

Joe hates this. Joe hates how nauseous he feels, how tight his throat is. Joe hates how much pain Wright seems to be in.  
And above all he hates how much he relates to this.

"I needed... the games for my body to tell me, you know..."

Wright smiles, but it's completely joyless. It's a shell of a smile. His eyes are wet, his nose is red, he's a god damn mess, and it's like looking in a mirror and Joe wants to cry.

"... it's not happening. It's not working."

A beat writer, sounding completely shell-shocked, pipes up.

"David, just to be clear, because you didn't say it, but... this... this is— this is it, right?"

Wright rubs the tip of his nose.

"I will say, yeah I will say, you know, physically, and." Clears his throat, sniffles. "The way I feel right now and, from the things the doctors have told me..."

Joe's eyes well up. Is this what it's going to be like? Is he going to have to sit up there and bawl his eyes out as he says goodbye? He doesn't want to say goodbye. He doesn't want this to be happening. He feels like a kid again. He feels lost. He looks at Wright’s ruined face and he looks at how he lowers his head, the bill of his hat shielding his eyes.

"There's not gonna be any improvement."

 

——

 

**YOU**   
**Hey David, it's Joe Mauer. I caught your press conference, I'm sorry about everything. You handled it great. I just wanted to say congratulations on your career and the best of luck on your future. I'm very honored to have been able to play with you. All the best, man.**

**DAVID WRIGHT**   
**Hey Joe. I still had your number, you know. Thank you so much. Means the world coming from you. Things feel strange right now but it will be okay, eventually. It really will.**

**YOU**   
**It will.**

**DAVID WRIGHT  
And how are you?**

 

——

 

Retirement is strange. It's not like the offseason. It's not like anything Joe has known for the past 17 years. Or his life for that matter.  
There's nothing to prepare for. Nothing to rest for, either. It's a strange limbo.  
Concussion has left him with strange gaps in himself that he can't quite pinpoint. He can tell things weren't always like this, but he can't tell exactly what has changed.  
Today is a cold Minnesota January day, and those don’t ever change. He’s been lying in his big king size bed, alone, for the past hour since he woke up. The radiator is humming. Outside his window, the snow is falling steadily. He doesn’t see his girls til Thursday. There’s really no reason to move. That's been a pattern lately.

The sound of his phone breaks the stillness.

**DAVID WRIGHT  
Hey :-) How’s it going today?**

Joe can't help but smile. He unlocks the phone and gets typing.

**YOU  
Pretty good! Just having a lie-in. How are you feeling?**

**DAVID WRIGHT  
Just waiting for my pain meds to kick in. It will feel better after that**

Joe sits up. So it's a bad day. David only takes those on the bad days. The ones when even moving is excruciating. David's discussed those at length. Joe understands. Pain's a big part of his life now, and he has to get used to that.

Talking to David has been like therapy. Joe's been told by everyone that the transition to his new life might feel brutal, and that he might want to seek help, and he'd considered it, but he can't think anything will help more than talking to someone who understands — who really understands. Joe hadn't really realized how similar their lives had been. He knew, kind of, but after he'd sobbed all the way through his own press conference and his phone had buzzed with texts from David, he'd seen the parallels.

They talk about everything. They mostly talk about what their lives have been. It comes so easy - just like it used to back in Arizona before David had to fly home. There's something about David Joe can trust, or maybe it's everything about him. Joe has never gotten along with someone like this in his entire life — not even his ex-wife.

It's great.

**YOU  
I hope so! Feel better soon.**

**DAVID WRIGHT**   
**You eaten breakfast?**

**YOU**   
**Not yet. It's cold. I don't wanna get out from underneath the covers.**

**DAVID WRIGHT**   
**Is it snowing still?**

**YOU**   
**What do you think?**

**DAVID WRIGHT  
How do you live in Minnesota! You should come to Virginia on a holiday. At least you won't freeze completely to death**

Joe pauses.  
They've been texting and calling like this, pretty much every day, ever since that retirement press conference. But they still haven't seen each other in the flesh since, probably, that All-Star Game. Which seems like a lifetime ago.

 **YOU  
** **1) Because I like it.**  
 **2) Is this an invitation?**

**DAVID WRIGHT**   
**If you're taking me up on it, it can be! I got a lot of space in this house.**   
**I mean, I'm not begging you, I have friends**

**YOU**   
**You do?**

**DAVID WRIGHT**   
**Yeah, I'm a pretty popular guy**   
**If you haven't heard**

**YOU**   
**I won't believe it til I see it.**

**DAVID WRIGHT**   
**Well there's your chance! Take it or leave it it's one time only**   
**not really**

It's not that Joe's life has been all sad and empty since retiring. It's not all great, but he has his parents, and his girls, and him and Maddie are on great terms, and he's got a whole array of friends in the city he's lived in all his life. He works out, goes for a beer, plays video games, goes fishing. He's got hobbies. Most of the time.  
It's just it still feels, well, bittersweet.  
Maybe it's mourning. That's what David calls it. Mourning for the way your life has been for the past thirty-five years.

Joe can't— shouldn't complain. He's loaded. He's known. He's got everything.  
But he doesn't have that thing, that thing he'd worked for all his life, his goal, his aspiration, his purpose.

What do you do when the dream is over?

 **YOU  
Honestly, I'm thinking about it.** 

**DAVID WRIGHT  
Just for a week or so! It would be fun I can trash talk you face to face**

And Joe really is about to get up, grab his laptop and book a flight and pull his series road trip luggage from the storeroom. But on his bedside table, Maren and Emily smile at him, and he comes back to earth. And besides, well, there's the obvious.

**YOU  
You know, I'd really love to actually, I'm bored, but Maddie's gonna need a lot of help with the girls and I gotta be on hand to help. **

**DAVID WRIGHT**   
**Oh no I get it don't worry**   
**How are the girls?**

**YOU  
They're great!**

Joe puts down his phone and looks down at the old Spring Training t-shirt he wears as a pajama top. David doesn’t get it, but that’s fine, that’s the only thing he can’t get.  
He doesn’t have kids. He’s never been married. They’ve talked this over — his baseball career has been everything and there had been no time for serious relationships. Ever the bachelor. Not as much of a womanizer as the looks would have had Joe believe, or as ladies would have liked.  
David doesn’t seem to regret it. Joe doesn’t regret his marriage either, but he wishes everything could have ended, well, not ended. He wanted the girls to get what he got, a childhood with both parents at home, but then again he’d kind of messed that up by being a professional baseball player.  
Not everything can be perfect.  
Maybe not everything should.

**YOU  
I mean, you know, or you could come over to Minnesota.**

**DAVID WRIGHT**   
**Really?**

**YOU**   
**Yeah, it's cold but if you wanna hang out my house is warm.**

**DAVID WRIGHT**  
 **Well, that sounds like a plan to me**  
 **even though I'll probably slip on ice and die and have you charged with my murder**  
 **When?** ****

 

——

 

David’s honest to god nervous about this when he steps off the plane. He started getting jittery when they started circling down to the airport, the flattened skyline of the Twin Cities getting closer and closer. And then his neck started to hurt and that was the end of that.

As he walks through the corridors to the arrivals a soft snow starts falling outside, and runway operators rush around. David is used to airports now, after a good seventeen years ushering himself in and out of them, yet this feels very foreign. It really shouldn’t, he’s just meeting up with a friend, but if he’s being honest with himself Joe isn’t just any old friend, even though they’ve only been that, really, for a few months. David loves his family, and his buddies and ex-teammates, and he doesn’t want to devalue the relationship he has with other close friends, but Joe understands him like nobody else does right now. And he came at just the right time for David.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket; there’s a message from Joe.

**JOE MAUER  
I’m at Arrivals waiting for you. I’m wearing a black overcoat and khakis. **

David’s pretty certain the description could match at least six guys around him right now, but it’s not like he’s going to have any difficulties spotting Joe. A 6’5 man with shoulders broader than a mountain and unfashionable sideburns just sticks out.  
Not that David is guilt free in the sideburns department.

Somehow he’s still scared he won’t see Joe, irrationally afraid he won’t have showed up for some reason. He picks up his luggage, pulls his hat low on his head — he'll probably never shake off the habit of wearing one — and walks through the gates.

The hall is sparse and he almost immediately finds Joe, who smiles and waves at him, and seeing him is so strange.  
Sure, they’ve facetimed, but this is different. Somehow David’s mental image of Joe is stuck five years ago, when they’re All-Stars and still playing full seasons.  
Joe’s hair is grey — buzzed and cropped and grey. The dimples on his chin are deeper ; he has laugh lines, and sparser eyebrows, and even his sideburns are salt and pepper. And he's smiling at David, ever so gently, one arm open to invite a hug.

"Hey! Welcome!"

David feels his face splitting with a smile, and lets Joe embrace him. Damn, he forgot how big he was. David's face just reaches his shoulder. The hug is short and one-armed, Joe smells clean and pleasant like apple shampoo, a nice change from plane smell. They come apart and Joe offers his hand, taking David's luggage.

"How was the flight? How's your back?"

"It was fine. Back's okay." David says, and he's surprised at how all his nervousness has disappeared.

"I was worried the snow would hold you guys up, but you got here just in time." Joe comments as they start walking towards the parking lot.

"You were't kidding about the weather, yeah?" David jokes, and he's relieved that things are easy, that it's just like through text and on the phone, that talking to Joe feels so comfortable.

“Yeah, it’s January.” Joe smiles, and David can tell he’s mocking him a little. So he punches him in arm lightly. Joe takes it. A few people shoot them looks; David is used to that, and he expected nothing less for Joe, whose face was in countless TV commercials, and now that David thinks of it there’s less and less TV commercials using baseball players as their stars.

“So what do you have in mind for today?” He asks as they load into the elevator down to the car park.

“Well” Joe says, squeezing his gigantic frame in the corner to let in a family with seemingly their entire life packed up with them, “I was thinking we can work out a little...”

“You are literally the biggest killjoy I’ve ever met.” David again can’t keep a huge smile from cracking his face, because that’s just what he expects from Joe.

“I was thinking about your health!” Joe protests, but it’s all in good fun. “Alright then, let’s stop for food and watch a movie.”

As they drive through the snow to the town where Joe lives, David wonders why he was ever nervous in the first place.

 

——

 

Joe sold the big house after the divorce. This one is smaller, but it's still pretty big. The guest room is next to Joe's, so David runs into him in the morning while he scurries back to his room from the bathroom, holding the towel to his waist, dripping water all over the carpet.

Joe raises his eyebrows.

"Forgot my clothes." David explains. "Don't look at me like that! You've seen me naked."

Joe chuckles, tapping him on the head and heading downstairs.

"Yeah. I have."

It's snowing again outside. The day before they'd made their way back to downtown for a guided visit through Joe's eyes. They'd seen a good part of the landmarks, and Joe had promised they'd go back to skate at a pond he likes. David hasn't skated in forever and isn't sure what that would feel like now that his back is his worst enemy. But Joe skates every week, and he tells David about it, so of course he wants part in that.  
So today's all about skating. Thankfully David's body has decided it would let him live, and he feels, well, pretty good. There's the familiar dull pain and the stiffness, but it's all he can ask for. Joe makes them breakfast smoothies while David does his tucks and stretches, and then they're in the car, David trying on Joe's spare snow gloves. Dude has huge hands.  
They stop at Joe's parents' house to pick up some old skates, and David stays in the car. Joe comes out with the skates and two plastic containers of food.

"My mom always worries that I'm gonna starve." Joe says apologetically, sticking the whole thing in the backseat.

"And mine. Same thing." You'd think once you're able to buy your parents a new house, or at the very least when you turn 30, they would stop underestimating your ability to do something as simple as feeding yourself, but to be fair, David's had plenty of teammates who would survive on takeout if not for their wife. "I alway get home with tons of leftovers, it's crazy."

"It's a mom thing." Joe buckles his seatbelt, and smiles at David for a few more milliseconds than David expects, and then starts the car.

The park they're going to is mostly empty, but there are a few kids playing. The pond is large, and completely frozen. Joe and David sit on a bench to lace up their skates, the murmur of cars out there faraway and muffled by the snow.

"Those are the skates I had when I was in high school. Before I shot up and outgrew them, like, completely." Joe comments, pointing at David's feet.

"Just call me short." David rolls his eyes, but he makes sure Joe sees his smile. "I'm not even short at all. I'm tall, in the real world."

"In the real world." Joe repeats, standing up and he's probably, like, seven feet tall like this. He looks like he could play in the NHL. David looks down at himself, his jeans, his bulky jacket, his old skates covered in stickers, and he's sure he looks like a total dweeb. "Stand hunched like that. You'll hurt your back otherwise." Joe reaches over and corrects David's stance. People are usually ginger when touching David's back, as if he could break in two if they pressed too hard. His physical therapist is really the only one who doesn't act like it's made out of glass. But Joe's firm, yet careful. It's like he knows what he's doing, though he really doesn't. David appreciates it.

"Okay." David mutters, mostly to himself, and they walk over to the pond, David's feet awkward and heavy. Joe glides on effortlessly, spinning round to face him.

Carefully, David steps on the ice, trying to keep his center of gravity low. He's gonna make a fool of himself, he's sure of it now. Joe skates over, leaning down onto his thighs.

"You can start moving. One foot ahead, push. Other foot, push. You'll be fine."

He doesn't sound condescending but David feels sheepish about his hesitation. He's a little scared, he has to admit. Scared of falling. Scared of pain. He hates living his life with fear, he wants to enjoy opportunities, but it nags at him and there's really nothing he can do about that.  
But Joe, mercifully, extends out his arms each side of David's hips, to guard him from a fall, and that gives him a little confidence. He starts skating, and despite a bit of pain in his back and some definite awkwardness to the way he's moving, especially compared to Joe's swift skating, it's as much fun as he remembers it being. The air is crisp, the winter birds are singing, the kids are shouting in the background. The sound of their skates scraping the ice is pleasant and melodic. He skates around the pond a few times while Joe completes what looks like drills, shooting up and down the length of the pond. David can feel himself getting competitive, although he knows he's got nothing on Joe. But that's an instinct that you can't quite take away from an athlete, even a retired one.

"Hey, are you Joe Mauer?"

They both look up. One of the kids is standing on the shore, all bundled up. He's about eleven. He's holding a smartphone.

Joe straightens up, and skates over.

"Yeah..."

"You're so awesome!" The kid blurts out, anxiously, looking like he's gonna explode, an expression of complete stress on his face. "I have your jersey. I play catcher."

"That's so cool!" Joe exclaims, crouching down to get to the kid's level. "Thank you very much. I hope you stick to it, baseball's the best. Do you play other sports?"

"Basketball."

"Oh nice! That's a good idea, always play more than one sport, it's great for you as an athlete."

"Okay, I will." the kid nods vigorously. And, after a tense pause, "Can we take a picture please?"

"Sure! Of course! With your phone? Hey David, could you come take my picture with this young man?"

David has been standing there and staring like an idiot. He'd been staring at the way Joe handled the kid's emotions, smiling, affable, selfless. The right way. The way he tries to treat his own fans too. As he glides over as best as he can, it strikes him again how similar the both of them are.

Joe poses, David drops the gloves, and takes a few pictures, handing the phone back to the kid, who's trying to hold back what looks like a big grin.

"Thank you."

"No problem, kiddo." David smiles, as the kid turns to Joe.

"Thanks Joe. You're the best. Have a nice day."

"I will. Enjoy yours and keep playing!" Joe calls out as the kid backward walks towards his friends.

"I will!"

And he's gone, back over to the trees where his friends seem to be observing from afar. David picks up the gloves.

"That was a cute kid." he comments.

"Kids are the best. I never liked the autograph hounds, but the kids I always have time for." Joe says, standing back up.

"Kids really care."

They stand there in silence for a second, then Joe reverts to skating form. David follows him, trying to coordinate his feet.

"Hey... how did that feel, you know, when the Twins picked you?" This seems out of nowhere, but it seems like a good moment to ask, as they round the pond again, at cruising speed. David's been wondering. This is another thing they have in common, but it must have been so much more for Joe, growing up where his team was actually based instead of some town out two states over.

Joe seems to think a little as they take the turn.

"I think I've answered that question a thousand times but you know how that feels like. It's awesome. I never wanna leave this place. It's not the best place on earth but it's the best place for me."

David wonders still. This is something he doesn't really have. Of course he loves New York with all his heart. They've adopted each other: his accent sounds of Queens and Brooklyn still, and probably always will; the city's streets will always feel like home. He's become the chosen son he'd dreamed to be as a kid when he pretended to be playing for the Mets in the backyard. But as much as he'd sometimes fancy it as a rookie, he isn't _from_ there. He's from Virginia. And now his career is over, he doesn't know which one he's truly, finally attached to. There's nothing really tying him down; no wife, no kids, just the season's start and end and his new job in the front office, trying to work the insane tangle of the organization into helping his friends and old teammates.

Maybe letting his mind drift off while skating wasn't the best of ideas, because his foot snags away and all of a sudden he's losing equilibrium, flailing for what seems like ten years.  
Before he can fall back and shatter his spine on the ice, though, Joe's strong arms catch him at his waist and shoulders.

"realizes, woah. You okay?"

There's real concern on Joe's face as they grind to a halt, standing next to each other, Joe still holding him.

"Yeah—" David assures him. "Was scared for a moment there" he can't help but smile. "I'm really not the best at this, am I?"

Joe releases him, and just laughs a little, putting his hands on his hips.

"You're not that bad. Besides, it's having fun that matters."

"That sounds like a whole lot of excuses, Mauer. This ain't Little League." David jokes, getting back into a stride of sorts.

"This ain't junior hockey either. Just skate. Don't worry about it. Enjoy it. There's nobody to beat here." Joe says, skating backwards so he's facing him. Showoff.

"Stop being a jerk. You're doing tricks!" David motions over.

Joe just keeps laughing, and spins around.  
It occurs to David that he would gladly stay here with him on the ice as long as he likes.

 

——

 

They get home with tired legs and cooking supplies from a stop at Trader Joe's. The Wild are playing tonight, and Joe wants to watch the game. David is happy with that, as long as he gets to sit down — his thighs are killing him. His back feels surprisingly okay. Nagging, but okay. He better enjoy that.

He sinks onto the couch as Joe drops the groceries off in the kitchen and starts to put them all away. There's a little bit of pain in his neck that shoots up as he lies back. Maybe he should stretch some more.

"I'm getting all the ingredients out for the wings!" Joe announces from the kitchen.

"Cool! I'll be there in a second."

Ten minutes later, NHL Network is on, and they're standing next to each other at the island counter. Joe takes care of the chicken and David is mixing the buffalo sauce. David never gets to do this, to cook with a friend. There's no denying it, it's very nice. It reminds him of the minors, of rooming with teammates, only both of them kind of know what they're doing and aren't at risk of undercooking the wings.  
Then he remembers he hasn't washed his hands, and maybe he hasn't got this as figured out as he'd like to think. He goes off to the sink before he gets an opportunity to put germs in the butter, and spins around, looking for a towel. There isn't one, but Joe's right there, so David flicks his hands at his face, splashing him.

"Huh!" Joe jolts, shielding himself. "Aww, stop!"

David just laughs. He hasn't heard that whiny voice a lot coming from Joe. His brothers must know it well, though.

"You're lucky I have hands full of raw chicken or you wouldn't live this down."

This is very Joe, David reckons. Competitive, but not reckless.

"Thanks for keeping me salmonella-free." David quips, pouring the butter into the saucepan. Joe just elbows him playfully.

As strange as it is, and as much as he doesn't feel completely comfortable acknowledging it, he hasn't stopped thinking about the way Joe held him for a few seconds at the frozen pond. Maybe he's a little touch-starved. The elbow in his ribs is a reminder of that.  
But soon enough the wings are cooking and the sauce is simmering and Joe's ushering around, taking the wedges out of the oven while David spreads out the seasoning on a cooking sheet. Joe's wearing a old tacky apron designed to look like a Twins pinstriped home uniform, which, he explained, belonged to his dad and was bestowed upon him after the divorce, which had greatly unsettled him. David can't see his dad doing anything of the sort. Owning an apron or giving it to any of his sons, for that matter. A police officer more than a father. Maybe the best thing he'd given David was an obsessive need to stay out of trouble. That had helped, one way or another.  
But he doesn't want to be thinking about his dad. He's with a good friend — a best friend?— rolling potato wedges in seasoning and joking around about Joe's inability to ever break any rules.

"Shut up." Joe grins.

"You're the biggest goody-two shoes the world has ever seen, and that's coming from _me_! Loosen up!"

Joe just bumps his hips into David's, pushing him a few inches away, and David fakes a yelp, his cheeks hurting from smiling.  
It’s been a strange few months. Spring is around the corner and all of a sudden he’s not invited. There’s something deeply sad inside him he can’t ever see going away, but right now, with Joe, nudging each other like kids, he feels good.  
That’s all he can ask for.

Then the wedges are in the oven and the wings are ready for the sauce. It’s a mess. Their hands are covered in hot sauce, and David just _has_ to reach over and poke Joe in the cheek with his coated finger, making the taller man protest and retaliate. They’re laughing, reaching and flailing, trying to get each other’s faces.

One of the most underrated things about baseball, he thinks, is the touching. It’s fleeting, and furtive, and you’re either standing ninety feet from your teammates or squeezed together like sardines on the bench. And there’s the tension of closeness when a runner’s on base, the twitching, the smell of sweat and the warmth of a body ready to pounce. The thrill of a tag, of a hand square across the chest, the ankle, the arm. And the frantic hugging of a win, and the millisecond touch of the high five, and the languid kind of squeeze of an affectionate ass grab, these little touches that keep you coming back for more. That always made David’s heart race faster than any date ever could. Married to baseball.

Maybe that’s why he’s chasing Joe around the kitchen right now. Maybe he wants Joe to grab his wrist and drag him to the sink and run his hand under the tap, laughing all the way. Maybe he craves the kind of touching that had been a staple of his life until now. Playful. Sincere. Ephemeral.

The oven’s ringing interrupts them and, when game time comes, they’re both sitting on the couch, their culinary handiwork laid out in front of them.

Joe’s talked to him about Minnesota hockey, about the North Star, about the Wild. He’s invested in it. So David tries to follow the action. Joe’s just as chilled-out as usual, lying back on the couch.

“Those wings taste great.” He comments, putting the bones in the little bowl he put out for them next to Mrs Mauer’s mac n cheese.

“I guess we’re professional chefs now.” David concludes as the Wild steal the puck away. “Hey, can you pass me a wedge?”

He extends out his arm, but instead, Joe picks up a wedge from the bowl and leans over, dangling it in front of David’s mouth. David stifles a dumbfounded laugh, and opens up. Joe’s fingers delicately deposit it on his tongue. It’s ridiculous and David loves it.  
He closes his mouth, chews, swallows, gives the thumbs up to a beaming Joe, who’s holding a half empty bottle of beer.

“Great teamwork right there.” David says, his voice betraying his amusement. “Can I have a few more?”

Joe grabs the bowl, and stashes it away between the armrest and his thigh.

“One at a time.”

And he picks up another wedge, and David thinks about how one good thing about retirement is that it’s January and he can eat as much crap from Joe’s hand as he likes.

 

——

 

They’re definitely going to get a little tipsy.  
Joe picks up the six pack of german beer from the trunk, listening to David hop down from the driver's seat into the snow. The driveway has been salted but there might be some shoveling to do outside the door. That’s out of the question for David but Joe will gladly do it. It always felt lazy to hire someone for that.

The night is dark and low as they track into the front yard. The snow covering the grass is thick, fluffy, piling up as the large flakes plummet from the sky, gathering up on top of their wooly hats and catching in their eyelashes.

Joe's not going to lie, it's not been a particularly good day for his body. They were visiting the Science Museum, and his knees kept feeling like they were going to buckle, his vision blurred, his head spinning, stairs a living hell, elevators out of the question. He'd slowed their visit down considerably, even though David kept arguing he too needed to sit down every once in a while. A particularly bright room had given him a migraine, but at least they ate well at a cafeteria Joe loves, and most of his vertigo dissipated by the the time night had started to fall. David had still driven them home, just to be safe.

Joe's so caught up in his rumination he barely catches David picking up some of the snow on the side of the path. He steps ahead of Joe, patting the snow into his hands into the shape of a ball.

"Don't you dare." Joe warns him, seeing what's coming.

Underneath his cuffed black knit hat, David beams at him, one of these lippy smiles that split his face in two. He's staring him down. Joe darts down for some material of his own, but David's winding up already, and the ball hits its target, exploding in Joe's side.

"Hey!" Joe screams in protest, gathering snow in his hand. "You—!"

David skips into the yard, up to his knees in powder snow, preparing his next ammunition. Joe hits him in the chest — the throw is accurate. Still got it. In return, he gets hit again, in the same spot.  
It's a furious battle, most shots hitting home, partly because they're just one year removed from the Majors, partly because neither of them is bothering moving much. They're laughing, covered in snow, the beers abandoned in the middle of the two of them. They're getting out of breath, David's cheeks are bright pink, and Joe's bare fingers hurt with the cold, but they keep pelting each other with snowball like god damn kids. It's so much fun. It's what Joe needed after today.

It is until he throws one more, and David suddenly turns around, and the hard, frozen ball shatters square in the back of his uncovered neck.

Immediately David buckles over, reaching back, his knees sinking into the snow.

“Ow.” He says, quietly. “Ow... Ouch.”

Joe’s stomach drops. As fast as he can he scrambles to David’s side.

“Shit. Shit! I’m so sorry. David. Are you okay? Shit, David, are you okay?”

The neck. The worst place he could have hit him. The source of most of David’s pain, the neck. Crap. Joe messed up, big time. David’s thousand mile stare is fixed into the snow and he just crouches there, hunched over stunned by the pain, breathing hard through his nose.  
They wait for the flare to pass, David’s face tense and red. Joe drapes an arm across his shoulder, feeling horribly guilty as they shiver together.

Joe ruined it. They were having fun, and he ruined it.  
He helps a wordless David into the house, and sits him down on the couch.

“I’m sorry.” He stumbles again, retrieving his heating pad for David to use. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” David finally manages. “You didn’t mean to. I’m the one who started it.”

Joe hands him the pad and David puts it around his neck, wincing and squeezing his eyes shut. Seeing him like this is pretty surreal, and pretty hard, and Joe just itches to help, to fix this one way or another. So he sits down next to David, holds out his arm, and lets David's hand grab at it in a death grip.  
They sit there, in silence, listening to David's wheezy breathing.

"It's not your fault." David utters, after a while. "Don't worry. It's, you know, pretty much unavoidable that I'm going to be in pain pretty consistently for no particular reason at any given time, so, yeah. I mean—" he pauses, and looks ahead, keeping his neck straight, blank eyes lost into the black screen of the TV. "I'm... kind of starting to realise what the doctor meant when he said I was probably going to be in pain the rest of my life."

David's words drop like a sheet of lead on Joe's chest, knocking the breath out of his lungs. The air around them turns thick and low, crushing the both of them down to the couch. Joe can hear his own heartbeat.  
David inhales laboriously.

"I don't—" he starts, his voice wavering a little. "I keep expecting to be okay again one day, you know, and it's not gonna happen. It's gonna get worse. That... feels pretty bad. You know... at first I was, you know, focusing on how I won't be able to play baseball anymore but now it's really sinking in that it goes way further than that."

Joe feels nauseous again. His head is spinning. The tears are there in David's voice, and if he looks at him he'll see them in his eyes. It's something that's difficult to think about, being like this for the rest of your life, when "like this" sometimes feels so bad you want to give up. Joe needs to comfort David, but the words are hard to come by when they hit so close to home. So he moves his other hand and softly he squeezes David's wrist, feeling the clench around his arm loosen a little.

"Hey" he finally hears himself say, his throat so tight it hurts. "I'm sorry, man. I'm pretty much having the... the same kind of realization these days if that helps."

He doesn't know where that came from. But he can't deny that it's true.

"Yeah?" David's voice is barely more than a whisper.

"Yeah." Joe says, feeling a trembling in his ribcage. "I mean, my memory's so bad. I forget entire _years_. I get those... those _awful_ mood swings. I _snap_. Just days on end I can't get out of bed. Can't go on rides with my girls. Can't ride a bike or go skating without that thought in the back of my head that I might fall. Can't sit in the back seat, can't go on boats, planes are a nightmare. The other day I fell over picking up my shoes, crap, David, I... I don't recognize myself sometimes. All cause I got knocked on the head one too many times. And it won't get better."

He almost doesn't notice the tears running down his cheeks. The words are spilling from his mouth, and he can't hold them back. It feels like something broke — like David opening up opened the floodgates. He feels terrible. He doesn't want to detract from David's confession. But he feels David's hand slowly moving down, and his fingers tangle with his, and he knows it's okay.

They sit there in silence, and Joe realises he's never held a friend's hand like this before.  
When his weeping stops and he feels like he can look at David again, he wipes his nose, feeling slightly embarrassed for his outburst of sincerity.

“So.” He clears his throat. “Do you want one of those beers?”

Half an hour later, the beers are still cold from sitting in the snow and David's meds have started taking effect. Both of their faces are raw and red from crying, but they act like they aren't, and it's all better that way. Their hands have retreated to their respective laps, and the only thing remaining from their mutual pity party is how close they're sitting.

Last time Joe cried with somebody was the divorce. He can remember every word Maddie told him, and he wishes he couldn’t.  
 _It's not either of our faults, I think. It's just... you know it's not working. And all the changes... it's not because of it but it doesn't make it easier. We both know that._

Joe shuts his eyes for a second, and put his controller down. David just beat him at Madden for the second time tonight ; they're a little tipsy and maybe it's time to call it a night.

"Here." Joe says, offering up his arm to David. "I'll help you upstairs."

David looks at him for a second with an expression that's completely undecipherable to slightly-drunk Joe. The he smiles, his eyes crinkling, and lets Joe haul him up onto his feet.

"Thanks." He grimaces, not quite straightening up.

As they get to the stairs it occurs to Joe that his vestibular system still is acting up, and that making his way up won't be as easy as he thought it would be, especially with David in tow. It's a struggle, but they make it, and David doesn't comment. He seems to understand.

And then, they’re standing on the landing, by both of their rooms, just looking at each other. Joe’s head is still spinning and he doesn’t quite know what to do, after tonight, after what they said to each other, after all of this.  
So he just opens his arms, and David smiles out the corner of his mouth, and brings it in.  
It’s a good hug, a real hug, and it lasts a little longer than Joe first expects, but he doesn’t mind. It anchors him.  
They both exhale, and pull away, David’s hand lingering on Joe’s shoulder, his thinning hair ruffled, his long eyelashes still stuck together from the crying.

“You smell good.” He lets out, wildly.

Joe stalls, staring down at the shorter man. He doesn’t know what to answer to that, but there's something in David's large eyes, on his face, probably the alcohol, that tells him he's not expecting one. They look at each other, David pats his shoulder once, and they separate.

"Goodnight." David smiles.

"Goodnight." Joe repeats, and gives David's own arm a tap of the hand.

"Yeah." David yawns. "See you tomorrow."

And with that he disappears into his room.  
Joe lies in bed for an hour before being able to find sleep.

 

——

 

"This is the worst." David groans, lying down on the yoga mat in Joe's gym room.

Joe looks up from the treadmill. David is struggling with his pelvic tilts. There's an expression of pain plastered on his unshaven face — they've both been growing a beard out — and for the third time today, Joe catches himself thinking the beard’s a great look on him.

"Can I help?" Joe offers, slowing down the treadmill pace. He's been bumping into everything today — his depth perception is messed up and he knew today was a bad day when he woke up and immediately knocked his hand into the bedside table trying to turn on the light. Hopefully if he helps he can keep from accidentally punching David in the face.

"Well I don't know. I'm missing my weekly physical, uh, like, physical therapy appointment, so I'm really stiff, which doesn't help."

"What! That's important. You should have told me." Joe feels guilty for making David come over now, instead of getting out of _his_ comfort zone and flying to Virginia. David's missing necessary therapy for this. But he waves it off, pulling his knees up.

"It's fine. It's just one of them. My back won't turn to dust."

He brings his heels up against his thighs, and cringes with pain.

"I hate that one." He mumbles. "I mean it's better than the rehab. It still sucks."

Joe stops the treadmill completely.

"I could help you with some of the, like, stuff you usually do with the therapist, right? I've stretched teammates before."

David seems to think for a second. His grey shirt is already starting to mottle with sweat.

"Well, I'm just warming up, but I've got some stretches that you could help with, I think. That would be good, actually. Okay. Give me ten minutes."

Joe agrees. In the meanwhile, he goes to the kitchen to make them both smoothies.  
As he's dropping fruit into the blender, his phone rings.  
It's his dad for his weekly check-in. They exchange platitudes for a few seconds, but Joe's mostly caught up from picking up the skates the other day. Then he cuts to the chase.

"Your mom told me you had a friend over!"

Damn. There was a reason he'd left David in the car.

"Oh. Yeah. You know David Wright."

"The Wright kid from the Mets?"

"Yeah! We played together in the WBC."

"I didn't know you guys were friends. He's a good guy, that Wright."

“He is. He’s a good buddy.” Joe says, and it sounds weird to say it.

“So you’re having a... guys' hangout. That’s nice.” A pause. “Don't he have a family to take care of, though?”

“No.” Joe sees it coming. “He’s single. Baseball celibate, you know. He’s looking, though.”

“I was only just asking! Maybe you guys can be each other’s wingmen. I have to admit I was a little disappointed, I thought maybe you had a girlfriend over.” His father laughs down the phone.

“Haha.” Joe attempts. He doesn’t need reminded of that. Hell he doesn’t think he wants anyone right now, or he would be looking. And he’s not looking. “No. Just David.”

“It’s just you know your mother and I are just a little concerned. With the retirement... it’s a change of pace, we talked about this.”

“We have.” Joe repeats absently, pouring coconut water into the blender.

“After the concussion... you know what the doctor said.”

“Dad... I don’t need a woman to keep me from, erm, killing myself or, whatever you and mom are scared I’ll do.”

“I know! I know. Look, I just think dating might help. Get you out of the house.”

“I get out of the house! I think having David over is a good sign that I’m doing fine.”

His dad seems to ponder it.

“I guess so... well, I’m glad you’re doing fine. I think Mom caught you up on the rest. How long is David here?”

“Rest of the week.”

“Oh! Well, enjoy. Bring him over if you have the time! Your mom loves company.”

“Sure, I’ll see if we have a little time. I’m gonna be with the girls tomorrow, so that’s that. Hey, I’m just about to get the blender on. Talk to you later?”

“Sure. Have fun, Joe.”

“Yeah. Love you!”

He hangs up, and flicks the blender on.

When he comes back David is all sprawled out onto the floor, contrapted with a stretching band slung around his foot. He's pulling at the elastic, breathing heavy. Joe watches him for a few seconds, somehow unable to detach his eyes from the sheer effort — from the sheen of perspiration on David's skin.

“Oh, thanks.” He smiles when Joe finally puts the shake down next to him.

“Ready?” Joe asks, taking a sip from his own bottle.

David carefully twists around and sits down on the mat, lying down slowly so his back is flat against the floor.

“Yeah. Okay, so, you have to push my thigh against my stomach, like that.”

Joe kneels down between David’s legs, and gently as possible helps him fold his knee. They go slow, David inhaling and exhaling deep and stilted, giving pointers to Joe on what to do and how to help.

“You can push harder. I’ll be fine.” David says, but the expression on his face doesn’t look fine.

“I don’t wanna go too far.” Joe frets.

“I’ll let you know if it’s too much.”

“Dude, I don’t wanna hurt you.”

David sighs and looks up at him.

“It hurts. That’s how it is, you know. That stuff hurts.”

Joe still feels terrible. After last night, after really hurting David, it's hard to sit there and tug at him to the point he's wincing. But he wants to help, so he does what David asks for and he presses on, trying to focus on something else than his cringing face and small sounds of strain.

His eyes dart around David's body. The top of his hair — sticking to his sweaty forehead all along his receding hairline. His thighs — his training shorts all bunched up, revealing his compression underwear. His chest — the front of his t-shirt dark and damp with effort.

David exhales again, and his breath is nice and minty, and Joe suddenly realizes just how close they are as he presses David's leg against his chest.  
It comes over him what exactly this _looks like._

And then he feels weird, and he doesn't like that feeling.  
He takes a sleeping pill that evening to ensure a dreamless night.

 

——

 

_Brodie, I think you have to talk to them if you want to be a players’ FO guy. I always appreciated communication |_

The door lock unlatches and Joe walks in, unzipping his bulky winter coat.  
David looks up from the laptop screen. Joe closes the door, and immediately leans against the wall, bracing himself.

"Guh."

David wants to jump off the couch and run over to help, but he has to be honest with himself. He can't. He starts winding up to stand up and his whole body screams in horrible pain, radiating up his spine and down to his toes.

The doctor's term was "immobilizing pain".

"Crap." he hisses, feeling tears welling up uncontrollably and his head spin. "Hey, Joe. You alright?"

"Yeah... just— motion sickness. Gah."

David feels stupid and helpless, struggling to stand up like an old codger three times his age. There's lots of good days and then there's bad days ; this is a really bad day. This is a "the meds aren't enough" day. This is a "the only thing that even slightly distracts me from the pain is pointless e-mails this brass won't even read" day. A day when he woke up, checked all the points of pain in his body, and they all breathed fire at him. Last week in Vegas at the auction, he could move around, he could stand for hours. And this morning he couldn't move from the bed. Is this payback? He's athletic, he keeps flexible, he does everything right. Why does he still have days that pin him to the couch?  
He knows why. There's no reason why. That's just the way it is. But he wishes there was an answer.

"It's fine, don't stand up. It happens sometimes after getting out of the car." Joe calls out from the entranceway. "I just go woozy."

"Are you sure?" David replies, still bending forwards to stand up, just out of spite for his body.

"I said don't stand up!" Joe snaps. Oh, he's annoyed. David's never seen him annoyed. Maybe he should back off. He knows how he himself can get when he's in pain, it's not pretty. He gets it.

"Okay, I'm sitting back down."

"God." Joe mutters, and for a second David thinks he's actually mad at him, but Joe stumbles through the living room and into the bathroom, and David hears the sounds of vomiting.

He waits a few seconds after the hurling stops.

"Are you... alright?" He asks.

Joe doesn't answer at first.

"... Yep." He finally says, and the tap starts running.

David just sits there until he comes out a few minutes later. He feels... thoroughly uncomfortable for the first time since he got to Joe's.  
He'd spent the day mostly moping around in pain after his daily stretch, but did get a walk around the house, looking at the pictures of Joe with his daughters, with his parents, with friends and teammates, beaming, undeniably handsome through seventeen years of baseball. Seventeen years, a MVP plaque on the wall, the three Gold Gloves arranged on a dresser and all the silver slugger trophies in a display case nearby. David had looked at his distorted reflection in the silver bats. Joe had, undeniably, a better case than him for the Hall of Fame.  
David wondered if Joe did this, if he stared at all the glistening hardware in his trophy room and felt the gaping in his life, the emptiness where baseball once was.  
That crushing sadness that fills him on the bad days like today, when every cell in his body reminds him why he had to give up.  
He wonders, as Joe sits down on the couch next to him, pale and damp, if Joe longs more for health or for baseball. Because David knows which one he'd rather have, and he hates that one took the other from him.

They sit like that for what feels like years and must have least have been minutes, David inspecting his fingernails, Joe staring out at the ceiling, intermittently sipping from a cup of water.

"I couldn't remember where the soccer field was." Joe finally says, breaking the ice.

David turns to see his face. It's almost completely blank, but David can make out one emotion: pesky displeasure. Which sounds like an under-reaction, because—

"We go every week, I drop the girls off there every week. Couldn't remember. I had to stop on the curb and google it. It was just..." He takes a mouthful of water. "... just gone."

David's at loss for words. What do you say to that?

"Crap."

"Yeah."

Concussion takes things from you that it never gives back. David knows it as well as anyone. His reaction time took a hit after that day he was beaned, and he's seen guys not being able to catch balls anymore, but this seems, well, just about as terrifying as being hit in the first place.  
Forgetting.  
They sit in silence some more.

"How'd, uh, you know, how'd the rest of the day go?" David asks, carefully.

Joe shrugs. Man, David's never seen him like this.

"I just couldn't enjoy it. My head's just acting up, I kept tripping. I had to sit down on the bench the whole time we were at the playground. Sun was too bright and the glasses were barely helping."

"Oh."

"And I was too nauseous to eat at the restaurant. And they could see I wasn't feeling good." That sounds like it's the worst part for him, showing weakness in front of his girls.

"I'm sorry."

Joe just shrugs again.

"How was your day? I'm sorry you had to hang out here all alone. It was such a nice blue sky."

"No, don't worry, you know, anyway I was useless the whole day. Back's giving me a hard time." he pats his own hip sheepishly.

"So a bad one for both of us, huh." Joe says tonelessly.

"I guess so."

"Man, my neck is killing me." Joe groans after another pause.

David's about to offer more useless sorries — he knows too well they don't solve anything — but Joe stands up.

"Wait, I got something we could try since we're both miserable."

Before David can ask, he's making his way upstairs.  
He comes back two minutes later with a green cellophane bag sealed with a clip.

He throws it to David, who catches it one-handed. Still got it. That gets a smile from Joe. He leans in behind the couch.

“Here. Have you tried those before? One of my buddies brought them from California when he heard I was having trouble with neck pain.”

They’re gummy worms. David’s eyes scan the package, a little confused.

“I wasn’t exactly... I didn’t want to use them. I think I’ve taken some twice.” Joe fumbles, obviously self conscious. “It really worked well. Only for the bad ones... I think it might help you.”

David looks up and he can’t hold back a smile. He wasn’t expecting this coming from Joe. At all.

“Edibles?” He chuckles.

Joe stiffens noticeably, like David’d caught him red handed doing something he shouldn’t have.

“Now that we’re not playing anymore...” he stumbles, his eyes darting around awkwardly.

“Yeah, my doctor’s been talking about all this stuff he’s gonna prescribe me when the medical licensing comes in.” David reads the label. “My dad would have a stroke, but you know, I’m the one with the messed up body.”

Joe’s shoulders immediately relax. David is almost amused by it. He looked so tense just a second ago. He rounds the couch and comes sit back down next to David.

“He’s old school.”

A typical cop. That he had always been. David remembers staying up all night studying, because good grades meant he got to play baseball, and bad grades would be the end of it. And he needed baseball. He needed baseball to keep his mind off all the other stuff. He wouldn’t have survived through school without baseball. It was _everything._ If he just focused on baseball nothing else mattered.  
That had worked for the better part of thirty years.

“Yeah. I never wanted to try drugs..."

"Of course you didn't. You're like the most unnervingly well-behaved person I've ever met."

"...but he made sure I didn’t, you know. Which was a good call really.”

“What with the sports career.” Joe nods.

“Exactly. But, like you said, you know... nobody’s gonna test me now.”

He can’t lie, there’s a feeling he’s breaking a rule, like he’s 15 and his father’s going to find out. Like everyone’s going to know and call him a cheater.  
But he’s 36 and it’s just Joe and him. And there's nothing to cheat at anymore. There's nothing but the unending battle between him and his body, and there's no point in trying to play fair by some outdated standards. He's past that point.

He undoes the clip and take out a red worm, staring it down.

"So, you know, how many do I take?" he can't hold in the nervous laugh.

"Just one for pain relief." Joe sucks in his bottom lip — David's always liked looking at his lips, even though that sounds weird. They're so plump. "Or, you know, if you feel like it we can take more."

They take two each, and what do you know, after a little while David’s back starts feeling much better. Better than it’s felt in _months._ Joe starts laughing a lot, and he’s got a great laugh, baring his nice perfect teeth and crinkling his blue eyes.

“Blue eyes...” David starts singing as Joe flicks the channels. “My baby’s got blue eyes.”

Joe _giggles_ and glances at him, slumping back into the couch.

“They have songs about brown eyes?” He asks, stealing another glance.

David thinks that’s quite funny, because he’s got brown eyes.

“They don’t because brown eyes are bo-ring.” he professes.

“Don’t say that!” Joe whines. “Yours aren’t boring. That’s not nice. I love them! They’re all shiny.”

David wonders why he never looks at Joe more. He’s very nice to look at, even like this, slightly older, slightly grayer, slightly more tired that the Joe Mauer that lived in his head his whole baseball career, the front-cover babe with the thick eyebrows and the massive stature and the million dollar smile.

“Especially when you’re smiling. Now you’re smiling. They look very good.” Joe continues, leaning in closer to inspect David’s eyes. “I’ve always thought you had a cute nose too. Did I tell you that? Cute nose.”

David snorts.

“My nose? Usually people like my smile, or you know my brows. Or my eyes, but you like my eyes.”

“Oh but I like all of that too.” Joe says eagerly, scrambling closer to David. “I just also like your nose, I wish mine was that cute. Boop.”

And he pokes the tip of David’s nose with his index finger. David wants to break out laughing, this is very funny and very weird but very good. Last time his _nose_ got _booped_ must have been by Jacob in the clubhouse, during an incessant pestering session.

“I like _your_ nose.” David retaliates, and it’s true.

“It’s a nose.” Joe mitigates, and he settles down and David notices their thighs are touching and it’s very cosy, because it’s snowing outside and he likes feeling warm.

“It’s a good nose. You got a nice strong profile.”

Joe chuckles, and David realises he’s blushing, crossing his arms against his chest, which really makes his pecs bulge. David’s always liked that. He’s always loved looking at teammates doing that. It looks good.

"And a nice strong chest." he adds.

"Aw. You got a good chest too." Joe pokes him in the arm. "You're skinny but you're sneaky strong."

"Had to be to mash all these home runs, you know." He shifts, stretching out his back and arms, listening to his joints pop. "Oh, that feels good."

As he settles back down, he notices Joe's looking at him with a really stupid smile, and David feels a little bold. He reaches over, and boops Joe’s nose too. Joe wrinkles it, squeezing his eyes closed at the feeling. There's no way around it, it looks plain adorable, and David has to bite his lip to keep from smiling too hard.

“Boop.” He adds, uselessly. "See? You look cute."

Joe laughs so, so softly, his face unclenching, and he gently lets his head drop, chin against his chest. Like he's all loose, all relaxed, sliding into this feeling of total calmness that is filling David too.  
There’s a strange, cotton-like cloud around them. Their shoulders are brushing against each other and David feels so carefree. It’s the kind of touch he misses and craves again, but it’s also even better, how earnestly Joe’s leg is pressed against his. It's filling something inside David's chest, and he just wants... he just wants more of it.  
He notices he let his hand hanging by Joe’s face, absently. It looks soft ; his short beard is just past the prickly stubble stage. He's gonna touch it.

Joe doesn’t pull away, doesn’t recoil. He leans in against the back of David’s fingers with a smile like a cat being pet, and they break into hysterics.  
It reminds David of rain delays, of long exhausted road trips, a slump, an upsetting event back home... the disconnected, tired tenderness of the clubhouse. Still laughing, he sits up, leans over, and within seconds he's all tucked under Joe's arm, head on his shoulder, closing his eyes and soaking it all in.  
Almost hearing the chatter of the locker room.

"I like cuddling. It reminds me of baseball." David mumbles.

"Yeah... I used to cuddle with Justin." Joe says, throwing his head back and resting it on the top of the couch. "Like when we lived together sometimes I'd get lonely and sleep in his bed." His fingers pat at the back of David's head nonchalantly. "Nothing shifty, I just like holding people, you know? Helps me sleep."

"No, yeah. I'd cuddle with Jacob, and teammates in the minors, you know." David mutters. "We'd nap together... Oh, and Franchy. He cuddles great, you know. He'd give me head massages and all."

Joe's fingers start scratching experimentally at the back of David's head.

"Like that?"

"Like full on scalp massage, man. He's so good with his hands, you know. But this is nice... You got nice hands, you know." He loves ballplayer hands. All the little bumps and wraps. He's always liked it.

"You keep gassing me up." Joe chuckles.

“But it’s true though! Just keep doing it, it feels good.” David slumps a little more.

So Joe keeps scratching, leaning back in concert.

"This is... so much better." Joe groans. "I'm not even nauseous anymore."

"My back feels good, man." David concurs, staring out at the nice blurry colors on the Madden game start screen. "Ugh, I'm so hungry, though. When's the pizza gonna be here?"

"Like 10 more minutes. Have a little patience. Here."

Joe grabs the packet of chips on his other side, and sits it right there in his lap, within reach of David. Well, that's convenient. David shoves a handful into his mouth, crumbs falling all over Joe's crotch, while Joe's fingers continue ruffling his short hair. It's really nice.

"I can't believe you do drugs. Joe Mauer, a bad boy." David mumbles, mouth half full. He doesn't feel like doing manners right now.

"Hey! You're stoned too." Joe nudges him indignantly. "And YOU'RE the one whose nickname is Captain America."

"It's just The Captain. They only called me that during the WBC." David explains, chopping his hand to mark his point and spitting bits of chips all over the place.

The WBC. He remembered walking into that clubhouse and shaking Joe's hand. God, that was before everything... All the hours they'd spent by their lockers, talking and talking, and David remembers watching Joe throw in practice and marveling, wishing they could be on the same team, wishing he could talk to that guy every day. Now, he kind of gets to. Maybe it's the one good thing that's come out of having to retire.

"Yeah, well, that's pretty bad already."

David slaps Joe's thigh in indignation. He's getting cheeky. David enjoys it, though. The teasing — that also was a huge part of baseball for him. He was always at it. On the field, off the field, you name it. He was never safe.

"You're just jealous cause you don't have a nickname!" He retorts, enthusiastically.

"I don't _need_ a nickname." Joe grins. "I'm Joe freaking Mauer."

And with that, the doorbell rings, and it's the delivery guy.  
The next morning David wakes up in his bed, all tucked in.

"You fell asleep on me while we were..." Joe hesitates, and laughs awkwardly. "Cuddling. So I picked you up and put you to bed."

"Well" David says, taking a mouthful of scrambled eggs. "Seems stoned Joe Mauer is a gentleman."

Joe laughs again, shaking his head.

"Stoned David Wright is clingy as all hell."

David watches Joe sip his coffee, his blue eyes glancing up at the ceiling.

"Not that I have a problem with it."

David can't hold in the big smile on his face.

 

——

 

"Well" David smiles as they hop out of the car in the slowly falling snow. "I'm glad I still pack a smart casual outfit everywhere I go."

"Force of habit." Joe nods, locking the car.

“That was really fucking nice. I haven’t eaten that well in a while.” David pats his stomach for emphasis, all huddled in his winter coat. As they come into the porch floodlight, Joe can see how pink his cheeks and nose are. He’s had a few glasses of red wine already at the restaurant. And they’re about to have more.

“It’s so good. I told you, it’s my favorite restaurant for a reason.” He insists as he unlocks the front door and they let themselves in.

The radio, which they’d apparently left on, is quietly playing radio rock; he makes a beeline to his wine cave unit to pull out a nice bottle while David sheds off his coat, chucking it on the couch. Joe sets two wine glasses on the counter, and pours himself a tall one. He drove them home, and there was no way he was doing that drunk, so he had to stick to the one glass with his steak.

“Hey! If you’re gonna help yourself that much,” David shouts, which is unnecessary seeing as he’s just across the bar. “Pour me the same!”

He flails about, struggling to remove his blazer, before finally throwing it across the room. He's ridiculous when tipsy, all stumbling and oddly intense. Joe hadn't really noticed it when they were getting drunk together, but as they sat in the restaurant, David all leaned in over the table, he'd had all the time and opportunity to observe it.

“Alright.” Joe tries to hold in his laughter, unsuccessfully, and pours him the same.

So they stand there in the kitchen, sipping wine, carrying on the conversation from earlier. The kitchen light casts the same kind of shadows on David as their dimly lit corner of the restaurant did, and makes something Joe had noticed in the airport even more obvious : David looks way skinnier than he did when they were playing. Under the hanging pendant lights, his face looks almost emaciated, his pointy cheekbones sticking out, his cheeks nearly gaunt. He looks, well, he looks tired, and older, it might be the meds, it might be the lack of purpose, the same reasons why Joe went grey and he gained weight the past few months. Or it could be the pain.  
And despite all that, when David smiles that cheeky smile, with the tongue just coming out between his perfect teeth, he still looks handsome; his eyes still light up, his dimples still crease, he still looks like a god damned model.

"Ohh!" David suddenly perks up, in the middle of a story about his younger brother's New Jersey misadventures. "I love that song."

It's some Beastie Boys hit, and David starts shaking his hips, wine glass in hand, sliding his arms and mouthing the screamed lyrics all wrong. Joe just watches and grins as David contorts, holding back from singing the right words not to embarrass him. After David prances around the kitchen for the rest of the song, the playlist goes for a groovy disco anthem, which only enables David.

"Come on!" He hoots at Joe, taking a drink from his glass. "Come on, dance! Just dance!"

And it's too hard not to. Joe puts down his glass and starts bobbing his head to the rhythm. And within seconds they're boogie dancing, and David keeps laughing that big laugh of his, where his whole body laughs, mouth wide open, head thrown back. It's the most adorable, most joyful thing Joe's ever seen.  
There’s more wine, and Joe’s getting tipsy now too, just a little, and they dance for a good two more 70’s tracks, shuffling across the kitchen, mocking guitars and keyboards and microphones in their dress shirts and slacks. They look like _idiots_. It's great.

And then, then the radio switches to freaking _Hot Chocolate_ which is sends David into such complete and utter delight he almost falls down laughing. Immediately he starts dancing in a way Joe is sure he thinks is sexy, but just looks comical. It's not that he couldn't pull off the hip thrusts and the stripper moves — he's definitely attractive enough to be a stripper, and Joe's seen him in the showers at the WBC, he's got an athlete's body, and he's, well, he's not big, but he's not small— but he’s just bot good at it. It feels weird to think about that while David is strutting in front of him like he thinks, well, knows, he's hot stuff.

David twirls and paces and Joe just watches, snorting, leaning on the counter, tapping his foot until David steps over, and unexpectedly gives him a spirited slap on the ass.

“C’mon grandpa! Get moving!”

Joe scoffs, hopping out of the way. Surely he’s not drunk enough for this. His Latin teammates were often great dancers and would show off their game in the clubhouse, and he was never confident enough to join in beyond the odd joking hip thrust.  
But for David, he starts dancing again. Nothing as daring as whatever it is the shorter man is doing, but waggling about and shuffle stepping at the very least. But David pulls his arms up above his head, mouthing the chorus, completely into his act, and Joe figures it's time to down the rest of his wine and put the glass back down a little more forcefully than needed. Maybe now's the time to try things he hasn't dared to before.  
So he gives a couple shakes of his hips, and to David's hilarity, starts dragging his hands down his torso in rhythm, looking up with mock bedroom eyes.  
David gasps in overdramatic fashion, and all of a sudden he’s grabbing at the front of Joe’s shirt and sharply pulling him in with an exaggerated roll of his shoulders. They’re very close now, their chests inches from each other as they twist to the corny beat, and it feels great. It feels fun. David is right — it all reminds him of baseball.

The dugout, the field, the clubhouse ; David was also right about it not being _the real world_. Joe wouldn’t have been caught dead touching a man the way he used to touch Justin if it wasn’t within the green grass and red dirt of the diamond or the safety of their dingy bachelor’s pad. No matter how safe Justin’s arms made him feel, no matter how much he enjoyed being near him. But in baseball, everything that he was scared of wanting was allowed. All that joy and all that sadness and all that intensity had to go somewhere, and warmth and love and touch were contagious affairs. And many times he’d wished he could recapture that tenderness, that fulfillment, that closeness ; but baseball is lightning in a bottle.

And there’s lightning in Joe’s kitchen right now as they shimmy together, breathing short and bodies close.  
They don’t have time to even step away from each other before the next song comes on, and David’s already dancing to the brass introduction, but the rhythm settles, and it’s not as dancey anymore.

_You’re just too good to be true  
Can’t take my eyes off of you_

Their pace slowly stops, and now they’re standing there, facing each other, on the verge of awkwardness. David’s eyes slide away, as if he’s all of a sudden unable to look up at Joe somehow, as if all that cheeky confidence has slipped away all at once. He’s still softly bobbing his head to the rhythm.

Oh, to hell with it. Joe doesn’t care anymore. David’s from baseball too. David knows. David understands.  
So Joe gently inches in, and holds his arms out for David to tuck himself in ; and there’s a hesitation, and David still isn’t looking at him, but he gingerly, cannily slots his feet between Joe’s, and hangs his hands on his outstretched hand and upper arm. Joe can hear his breathing, still sharp from all the moving, slowly calming, and he rests his hand at the crook of his waist.

_Pardon the way that I stare  
There's nothing else to compare_

Joe takes a breath, and leads in. They're slow and soft, feet shuffling carefully, touch light and feathery, their hands barely resting on each other. There are either too many thoughts in Joe's head or none at all — he can't really make out anything either way.

_The sight of you leaves me weak  
There are no words left to speak_

It's like the world around them's disappeared suddenly, and the only thing Joe is allowed to look at is the top of David's head, David who's still absorbed in his own feet. The wine swirls in Joe's belly, and he thinks back to last night, to David asleep in his arms, trusting him, his head lolled back against his chest.  
It dawns on him he doesn't know where the line is. There was never a line in the clubhouse : everything was fair game, because there was an assumption, a silent contract. _You're not, and I'm not, and nobody here is, and we're safe._ But they're in his kitchen, and when you've stepped outside these chalk lines for the last time, is all that you long for still the covenant of tenderness of the locker room, or is it something else — something more — something that you've been distancing yourself from all your life?

_But if you feel like I feel_   
_Please let me know that it's real_   
_You're just too good to be true_   
_Can't take my eyes off of you_

The music picks up, and Joe doesn't think anymore, his grip finally gets firmer, and David holds tighter. They're really dancing now, Joe leading, pleasantly surprised to find out David is in lock with him, barely fumbling, as they side step and spin across the kitchen and into the living room. He's in a cloud of lights, his heart beating faster.

The chorus fades back into the verse and David cocks his head, and laughs at the ground, fully committing to the dance now. He's still not looking up, but he pulls himself closer, holding on to Joe.

Joe can just about see David is smiling though he can't see his face, and they dance until the song fades out, until they're just standing here holding each other.  
A second passes, and Joe starts realizing he's going to have to let David go, but what comes next is a swell of violins and piano, a cheesy Elton John cut, and god, Joe's not going to let go. No, he isn't. Instead he shifts and wraps his arm round David's waist, pulling him in, and David's chest is almost touching his, his clean-shaven cheek almost pressing against Joe's shoulder.

_When you found me  
I was feeling like a cloud across the sun_

They sway softly, tipsy and clueless, Joe's hand loose and crumpling the back of David's soft dress shirt, and he swears he can hear David's heart beat, very fast, so hard he can almost feel it, and it just feels right.

_But in the moonlight  
You just shine like a beacon off the bay_

And with that, finally, David looks up. And in that instant, he's the most handsome man Joe's ever seen, the feeling blooming in his ribcage like a flower, expelling all the air from his lungs like a gut punch. There's something intense in his eyes, something Joe's only seen in glimpses. But it's so sustained now, as he looks at Joe with such abandon and so much trust that it's disconcerting, that Joe's oscillating between clutching him tight against his heart, and running away and never coming back.

_And I can't explain_   
_But there's something about the way you look tonight_   
_That takes my breath away_

There's nothing else in Joe's sight but David's glistening brown eyes in that second, nothing else but his creased crow's feet and long dark eyelashes.

Joe's heart is beating _too_ fast now, pounding against his chest, because David is looking up at him and his face is pink and he's so close, so close... and if he weren't drunk he'd be afraid, afraid of what this means, but instead, he lets David throw his arm around his neck, pull their bodies flush against each other, and rest his head against Joe's collarbone.

_With your smile_   
_You pull the deepest secrets from my heart_   
_In all honesty_   
_I'm speechless and I don't know where to start_

From the tall end of their five-inch difference, Joe can't take his eyes off the man huddled in his arms. He thinks back to the restaurant, how David compelled attention with his hooded eyes and button nose and jutting jaw, and that mop of hair and that nice light blue shirt that was definitely chosen for him by somebody else, because the guy's fashion sense will always be a disaster.

"Help me choose." David had said, showing him the menu. "You always know what to do."

Well, he doesn't know quite what to do right now, with David's calloused hand in his and his warm body in his embrace. But he does know one thing: he feels good, and if the goosebumps on his forearms are to be trusted, so does David.

When the song finally fades and the radio goes to commercials, David keeps on humming along for a few seconds as they just stand there, holding.  
It's David who pulls away first, very gently. He clears his throat, his eyes stuck on the floor again, and a nervous little laugh escapes him as he pulls up the back of his pants.

"So." Joe says, hesitantly, his heart still pounding from whatever just happened. "Want another glass of wine?"

David's still got his head low, but he can see him bite back a smile and cock his head as if to concede.

"Yeah, sure, why not." He sounds squeaky, almost. "Yeah!"

It's a little awkward. Not uncomfortable, but awkward. Joe helps them both to more wine, and the radio's playing jazz again. David's eyes are fleeing Joe's, his nose in the glass as he sips. It soon becomes apparent that he isn't going to say anything, so Joe takes the first step.

"You... you can dance a little, huh?" He attempts, motioning towards David.

David smiles into his glass.

"Thanks? I guess. You— you're good."

"My parents made us do ballroom." Joe explains. "Well. My grandma."

“Oh my god, really? I wanna see baby Joe ballroom dancing. Glasses and all.” David grins.

“I hated it. I liked sports better... My parents liked sports better too. But it did come in handy, I guess."

David smirks, seemingly delighted by the thought.

“What were you even like as a kid?" He asks, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Really obedient I bet. Real stickler for the rules.”

“I'm sorry, I thought we were talking about me, not you.”

David laughs his drunk laugh, with all the snorting and wheezing and his chest jumping up and down.

“I mean, yeah. There wasn't really a choice, you know. There was a lotta rules. You know how strict my parents were. And I'm the big brother, you know. There wasn't exactly space for fuckin' up and messing around."

"What, you didn't break any rules at all? Never?" Joe scoffs.

“Well, I don’t know. I was still a kid, you know. Kids aren’t perfect.”

“What does that mean?” Joe teases, putting his glass to his lips again.

"Not really anything in particular, you know. The expectations were high, that's all."

"You're deflecting." Joe says, sing-song.

“Yeah, well.” David goes silent for a few seconds, taking a drink of his wine.

He puts down his glass, and leans his elbow on the counter, his eyes stopping onto a spot above the fridge behind Joe.

"I had a friend in 6th grade." He says, pensively. "We were close, you know. My dad didn't like him. Thought he was trouble, you know. Which he probably was. But I really liked that kid."

He pauses, taking another sip.

"I got told not to hang out with him, cause my dad was moving up the ranks, you know, and that wasn't a good look. But I still did. Cause I... really liked him. A lot."

A few more seconds pass. Joe expects David to say more, but he doesn't. He just stands there staring into the middle distance.

"Is that it?" Joe asks.

David shrugs.

"I guess."

"That's the rule you broke?" Joe chuckles, incredulous. David, man. David.

"Well... There was little things, you know." He gestures vaguely. "Like chores and all."

"That doesn't count."

"'S what I'm saying."

"Did you stay friends?"

David takes a moment to answer before finishing his glass.

"Not really."

"Huh."

Joe can tell there's something more to this, but he's not in the mood to find out, in al honesty.

"Anyway. I bet you got better stories." David says, clearing the air.

"Well I wasn't exactly the devil, but I broke a window or two playing ball inside with Bill and Jake at least. And I sneaked off with my girlfriend."

"Oh, sorry, we got a Playboy over here." David mocks.

"What? Do you think I was going to let all this," he motions up and down at his body, "go to waste?"

They go back and forth like that for a while, Joe telling childhood stories and David always finding something witty to reply, leaning on the counter with his chin resting on his hand and laughing at Joe's anecdotes.  
There's something about him slumped there, with his three top buttons undone and his clean ballplayer's cheeks, with the chest hair peeking out and his wine-blushed cheekbones. Joe doesn't have the will or sobriety to care about why that something makes his stomach flip.

“Nah, I had a great childhood." Joe concludes, grinning despite himself. "And— you know, I just want my girls to get the same thing. I mean, I hope they're as well-behaved as you were."

David smiles out of the corner of his lips in acknowledgement.

"I just..." Joe starts, but can't find the words for what he wants to say next.

He thinks back to yesterday, Maren and Emily in their car seats as he tried to dam back tears, holding his head in his hands against the steering wheel, straining and panicking like a goddamn kid. They shouldn't have had to see their father like this. How can he pretend to be able to give them a childhood like his if he can't pull himself together? He'd never seen his father have an anxiety attack. He'd rarely had his father snap at him for no reason. And now he's thinking back to that conversation with Maddie again. _"It's not their fault,"_ he hears himself say, _"They're just babies. They don't understand. I don't want to—“_

Of all the things he misses in his life, he misses who he is — who he used to be— the most.

“... I just love them so much.” He’s a little choked up now, his eyes prickling. “I just want them to have a normal childhood. And with the divorce... and with me... god, I don’t wanna make it worse than it is already.”

When he looks up, David's smile has slipped off his face a little. There's a lot of gentleness in the way he's looking at Joe with those downturned eyes, and something bittersweet too as he looks down at his glass. Joe can't quite tell why, but before he can work it out, David looks back up and gives him the exact same joyless smile from that press conference.

"I understand. I get what you mean." he says, though Joe is sure he doesn't. "You know, I think you're a great dad and... I think the fact you're putting your kids first... the rest you can't really help, you know. You're doing the best you can."

Joe doesn't understand the look on David's face, the odd sadness in his voice. But he's, admittedly, a little too tipsy to care. He just watches David, and can't help but think he'd be a good father. Responsible, kind, funny. Talented, hard-working, persevering. The right kind of man.

"Have you ever thought about starting a family of your own?" he asks.

David shrugs, still looking pretty down.

"Well, I'd need someone to do it with."

They've talked about this via text. He'd known David had never been married, hadn't even had a long term-relationship over a year long — New York tabloids loved those stories — but he hadn't known it was by design. _"It was all about baseball, you know"_ David had said over the phone one night. _"And I didn't really want to feel like I was giving just a fraction of me... and always being away... it's tough, and it hurts. I couldn't do it then."_  
It seems absurd to him that a man as handsome, as funny and as wonderful as David would have any difficulty finding someone to be with, but it's apparently been a struggle for him.

"Well, now you're done with baseball... it's a whole new world." He reaffirms, sheepishly.

David stares down at his empty glass.

"Yeah." He just says, flatly. "Yeah, I guess it is. I—" he pauses, holding his breath in suspense. "Look. I should probably go to bed."

Joe stalls — he didn't expect that.

"Oh. I mean— yes sure! You must be real tired. What with all the food—"

"—and the wine—"

"Yeah. It's almost 2AM already. Let me put this away." Joe corks the wine while David puts the glasses in the dishwasher and goes pick up his blazer. Joe kills the lights, and they head upstairs.

He feels a little dizzy now, the combination of alcohol and vertigo hitting him as he climbs to the second floor right behind David. This feels wrong. This isn't how the night is supposed to continue, not after all of this. He leans one hand on the wall as they get to the landing, trying to regain some balance. David turns around, hands in his pockets.

"Well." he says softly. "Wait, you good? Dizzy again?" His forehead folds with worry.

"Yeah." Joe manages. "It'll pass." Hopefully. At this point his head might just be spinning from the whiplash of David's sudden mood swing.

"Okay. You sure?" David insists, still looking wary.

"Yes. I'll be fine."

They stand there for a second, David at an angle and not completely facing Joe. He clears his throat, and shifts.

"I had a great night. Thanks for taking me out."

"Ah, uh, thanks for coming!"

"The food was great."

"It was! I'm glad you liked it."

"I did."

And David smiles, still bittersweet.  
So Joe nods, lets go of the wall, and opens his arms, because that’s the only thing he can think to do. David seems to hesitate, like he did last time, but he gives in, and they’re hugging on the landing again, David slowly exhaling against Joe’s breast, resting his weight on Joe’s arms. He’s holding on tight, nose buried in his shoulder, fingers pushing divots into Joe’s back, which feels... nice. Joe doesn’t want it to stop, please, don't let it stop.

“Your arms are so big and strong.” David mumbles, and he sounds almost choked up.

And David’s words send chills up his spine, make him feel tall and powerful, make him want to protect the smaller man in his arms, to keep him safe, to care for him and his weakened body. They hold each other for even longer than last time, and Joe thinks of last night, of David’s soft sleeping face, his hollowed cheeks and his body so much lighter than a just-retired ballplayer’s ought to be. How he nuzzled into Joe’s arm as he carried him up the stairs, looking helpless almost.

Joe doesn’t want to let him go. But when they finally pull away, David’s hand lingers on his arm, and there is that sad smile again.

“Goodnight.” He says, and the door of his room closes behind him.

Joe stays there for a second, maybe just in case he opens the door again. He's not certain what he's feeling as he retreats to his own room and starts unbuttoning his shirt.  
Kicking off his shoes, he makes his way to the ensuite in his tank undershirt, the shirt hanging off his shoulders.

In the mirror, the alcohol leaves a screen on his face.  
He sees a young man in there, with a smoother face and darker hair, with certainties and doubts and a lot of things to bury. Joe Mauer, bachelor, unsure why.  
He feels... angry at himself.  
What would that _kid_ have done tonight? What would the scared, drunk minor leaguer want to do if he didn’t have a baseball career to protect?  
Why is Joe Mauer, gray-haired, retired, standing there at the washbasin with an open shirt and an open fly, instead of— instead of...

God damn it. This isn't right. This can't be how tonight ends. The alcohol is coursing through his veins and this won't be how tonight ends. He flings his bedroom door open and is about to knock on David's, absolutely unable to identify what it _is_ he's going to do, just knowing he wants to be close to David again.  
Before he can, though, he hears a sound in the otherwise silent house.  
He stands still, and realises it's coming from inside the guest room. It's David, sobbing softly. Joe stalls there for a while, listening, waiting, trying to decide what to do.  
He knocks on David's door.  
There's no answer, but the sobbing stops.

"David?" He calls out. "Are you... okay?"

There's no answer, but Joe can't just leave. So he opens the door.  
David's sitting on the bed with his back to him, his face in his hands.

"Hey... David." Joe asks, surprisingly softly. "Can I help?" Maybe he's in pain. "Is it, uh, your back?"

David takes a few seconds to answer.

"...no, no, I'm fine." He chokes out. "It's fine, don't worry."

It's clearly not fine. Joe walks over to the bed and carefully sits next to him, his head rifling through the possible reasons as to why David could be sitting there crying.

"Is it something I said? You're not a sad drunk as far as I know."

That makes David chuckle. In the dim light of the bedside lamp, Joe can see the glistening of the tears streaming down his face, the yellow light cutting his profile in a sharp and hunched silhouette.

"Don't worry, I— it's pathetic, don't worry." David spits out at himself. "I'll get over it."

"Hey." Joe rests his hand on David's arm, which makes something deep inside him yell out in victory. "Don't say that about yourself." It's like talking to a self-deprecating rookie. The number of times he had to sit down with Kepler... but this isn't Kepler, and this isn't about David's swing.

"I don't even know why I'm upset." David says, defeatedly. More tears flow silently.

Oh boy and is that a familiar one. Days lying down in bed, or standing in the kitchen feeling like there's a rock sinking down all your insides, unshowered and unfed, a mess, completely unable to figure out just where exactly all the sadness weighing him down like lead even comes from.

"That's fine." Joe soothes, best as he can. "I... I know what that feels like."

Somehow that makes David crack and he starts sobbing again. Joe, carefully, moves his hand to David's back, and starts stroking it through the jolts.

They sit there, Joe rubbing David’s back, until the sobs recede, and David’s breathing evens out, calm and deep.  
Gently, David shifts. His arm presses against Joe’s, his shaking hands lift from his knees, and, like a child, he tucks himself into Joe’s shoulder, and it’s everything Joe was looking for.  
David’s hair is full of product and it tickles Joe’s jaw, and Joe puts his other hand on David’s back. He’s all wrapped up in Joe’s arms, his face resting in the crook of his neck, his breath hot against his collarbone.

It feels so right. They shouldn’t have stopped the first hug in the first place. Joe could melt into this one, and he sighs, dropping his forehead to David’s shoulder.  
They both need this. Neither of them is going to let go.

Joe doesn't know what's bothering David, and if he were more sober, he'd probably have more doubts than he does right now, but in this instant it feels so obvious that David wants the same thing that he does. So he lets his hand creep up David's back, and soothingly starts to stroke at the back of the smaller man's neck, like he did last night on the couch.

David exhales, and Joe feels him relax in his embrace, resting his hands at the bottom of Joe's back. There's something in the pit of Joe's chest that quivers as David pulls himself closer, a strange relief in having David pressed so tight against himself that he can hear his pulse again. And when he breathes in, the skin of David's bare neck and what his undone shirt buttons let see of his shoulder smell sweet and masculine. Joe sneaked a peek at him applying his cologne in the morning the other day, and it was the most delicate thing, the way he sprayed it onto the smooth expanse of his shaven neck.  
God, he wants to taste that scent, his head dizzy with need, his heart beating against his temples. He burrows his nose into that slender curve, taking in notes of cinnamon and frankincense, and god, he can’t help himself. His blood beating against his eardrums, he leaves the lightest peck of his lips at the edge of David’s shirt collar.

David doesn’t flinch. Instead, his arms wrap round Joe’s back, and he squeezes him tighter, so Joe does it again. And again. Pecking at David’s neck, face all pressed up against him. The air around him grows smoldering as he keeps kissing, and now David's kissing his shoulder too, feverish and frenzied, and his hands are shaking and David's hands are dancing up his back and it's confused and warm and urgent and they're so tight and tangled together—  
David rips himself away, tearing Joe off him, panting slightly, his face red and his gorgeous little body trembling.  
Joe looks into his half-lidded eyes, surprised, and scared that he overstepped, that he misinterpreted, that he went too far, that he hurt David. But before he can think any more, David grabs his face with both hands and kisses him like he's never been kissed before, square on the lips, with a desperation and wantonness that's hard to comprehend.  
It's chaste yet febrile and it's harsh almost, their mouths pressed together, and Joe's alive and ablaze, and he kisses back, and it's so much, it's too much almost, it's like his whole _body_ is on fire. He's kissing another man, kissing his friend David, and that's all he ever wants to do for the rest of his life, everything inside him roaring in victory, just knowing this was what he'd been waiting for.  
He's so lost in it takes him a few seconds to realise David's weeping again, and when David finally pulls away, he's breathing hard — too hard.

"Oh my god." David gasps out, his voice thin. "Oh my god. I can't— I—"

David's hyperventilating in his crumpled shirt, his bloodshot eyes wide open, and Joe knows exactly what's happening.

"Hey." he says, putting his hand over David's and trying to clear his head. "Hey hey, hey, it's okay. It's alright. It's okay."

"No, no, no!" David wheezes. "Oh god. Oh god. That was— That was it— all along— that's what I am, that's what I am, I—"

"David." Joe's head is spinning. "David, let's take a breath."

"I can't— I can't— breathe—" David chokes out. "I— fuck— I'm 36, I'm—"

"David, stop, stop. Look at me. Okay, take my hand. Alright?" Joe asks, in the most composed way possible.

He offers his hand, and David grabs it. It's a death grip, his fingers digging into Joe's flesh and it almost really hurts, but Joe can take it. Together, they breathe, deep and slow, until David calms down.

"I—" he starts, swallowing down with his face bathed in tears still. "I just..."

"Hey." Joe murmurs. "Take it easy."

David sighs, deep and long, and then his lips are back on Joe's. This is slower, more gentle. David's bitten lips are soft. Joe's heart still bolts, unable to deal with what's happening.  
When they part again David wipes his eyes with the back of his free hand.

"I'm sorry." He croaks, his voice cracking.

"For what now?" Joe squeezes his hand, on which David has relented his grip.

"For freaking out. For—"

"You had a panic attack, man, you can't help—"

"No, I mean, for ruining tonight, for..."

He pauses, and Joe waits for him to continue, though all his empty brain wants to do is kiss him more.

"I though you were letting me down easy." He says, quietly, not looking at Joe. "Talking about your kids and all."

Joe can definitely feel himself sobering up now, but it's like his own brain is refusing to understand the scale, the repercussions of the situation. It's like he's stuck to the present, stuck to David, and he doesn't have to think about what this means.

"What do you mean? Earlier?"

David shrugs, wordlessly, staring into the middle distance. Joe thinks for a second, and takes a breath.

"I didn't know I liked guys." He utters, and it feels crazy hearing himself say it.

David seems to digest the sentence for a few moments.

"I thought I didn't." he says. "But I really did. I just..." he pauses again. "You know, never allowed myself to accept it."

A silence.

"Yeah." David mumbles. "I guess I always knew and that's why my love life was, you know, like that. I thought I was making a choice but I think I was just... you know, scared of the truth."

He runs his fingers through his hair, wipes them on his slacks when they come back full of styling gel.

"Until you, I guess." he concedes. "You're hard to ignore."

Joe stews on that. He's at loss for words, or thoughts, but David isn't finished anyway.

"I've always liked men, I guess. It's just easier to accept when you're dancing with me like you're gonna sweep me off my feet. And make me yours."

It's corny and Joe loves it and he wants David's mouth again. He takes it, and this time David parts his lips and lets in his tongue, and it's been so long since Joe's kissed someone like this. It's been so long since Joe's even wanted to do anything like this.  
This one lasts longer, but still feels tentative. Like they're testing each other. Like you size up a pitcher you've never seen before, growing more and more confident each time through the order.  
When they break apart again, David's hands are on Joe's thighs and he drops his head down.

"It's just... I wish I'd realized before. All my life... I've known who I was. I thought I knew who I was anyway. I knew myself... that's what— that's what makes me me, you know. I know who I am. And now..."

He seems confused even more than upset at the thought.

"You're David Wright." Joe states. "You'll always be David Wright. I don't think it matters what you do with your love life. That's never what being David Wright was ever about, is it?"

David's looking down at Joe's lap, avoiding eye contact.

"I think," Joe continues, feeling inspired, "it was always about honesty, and humbleness, and hard work, and being the most genuine guy in the business. It was about always doing the best you can. And about ribbing people you love relentlessly."

He can hear David let out a huff of a chuckle.

"And besides... I mean, our whole life was baseball until all of a sudden it isn't. You know. You're changing either way. That doesn't mean you're not you anymore." Joe concludes, feeling proud of his eloquence.

"I guess."

Joe lets him think about it for a little. Then he remembers something. He remembers a thin dude with pimples and the thickest eyebrows hustling to first base in Tennessee.

"Do you remember when we first met?" he asks.

David looks up.

"The Japan Series?"

"Well not met. I guess saw each other."

"... Rookie league?"

"The hit by pitch."

David, skinny and angular, wincing in pain after being hit on the wrist. The ball hitting Joe in the back in retaliation and _ouch_.

"Hey! I'd forgotten about that. You looked so nerdy back then. I remember thinking that, anyway."

Joe remembers staring up at David's ass, crouching behind the plate, when his stupid pitcher let the ball slip up to David's hand.

"And you looked really handsome." he smiles.

"You thought that?" David looks almost embarrassed.

"I thought it for sure. I kept thinking about all the girls you must have been getting."

David scoffs.

"That's the straightest way to think about the fact you find another man attractive, right? Thinking about how much women love him."

Joe can't help it. He leans in and kisses David again. It's like drinking water after being thirsty for a long time. It's a rush he can't get enough of. This time they're full on making out like teenagers, and David hauls himself up on the bed, his hands back on Joe's face, ready to climb into his lap.  
He's a decent kisser, but Joe likes the way he grabs at him the most, like he's holding on for dear life. He keeps running his hand across Joe's gray, buzzed hair, and it makes Joe want to bite into the kiss, something deep and animalistic waking inside of him for a short moment, something he hadn't felt in a while.

But David pulls away. He's panting a little, staring into Joe's eyes, and he looks, he looks... well. Joe realises his fingers are tangled in David's messed up hair.

"Wait." David sputters. "So you, you know, liked me back then?"

Joe doesn't let go of David's hair. It feels nice like that.

"I don't know." He hesitates. "It's complicated. I don't understand a lot of the stuff I thought when I was 19."

He doesn't know if he was even equipped to realize he liked David. He liked women, so there was no reason to wonder about the way he felt about other guys.

"You know... I got married, I had beautiful kids... I thought I made sense, I mean I thought my life just... fit. It's crap that I have to do this in my mid-thirties but—"

"—but baseball."

"Yeah." Joe considers. "Baseball."

David sighs, and he presses his forehead against Joe's chest. It's a wonderful weight. Joe wants to scoop him up. Wants to touch him. Wants to do things to him. Whether he can — that's another problem.

"... have you ever been with another guy?" he finally asks.

"No. I mean, not like this."

"Me neither. Wait, what?"

David takes his head off his chest, and he looks a little embarrassed.

"Well... you know." he says, carefully. "I was single... and the road trips... And the winning and the losing. And you know. The showers." He looks for a word. "Helping out."

"Oh." It's not like he doesn't know about that stuff. It's part of baseball, especially in the minors. Again — there's no line in the clubhouse.

"More than once but not a lot."

"Okay."

"Is that fine?"

"I don't really care, to be honest with you."

"Cool."

And they're making out again. David tastes like wine still. Joe's brain's turning off, smothered in touch and kisses, drowning in shivers. Slowly, he pushes David down on the bed, lying him down on his back, and they’re more comfortable like that. David is trapped underneath him, and his hands are underneath Joe's tank top, his thumbs rubbing at Joe's hairy stomach, muttering about how he likes it. It's very good. Joe hasn't had anything like this in... years.  
David's got good hands and he knows what he's doing, and they're traveling down... and down... and Joe's fly is still open...

And it feels good and for a second he thinks all the upheaval in his chest and all the things he'd forgotten he could feel surfacing back will help, and that finally _something_ might happen, but after a couple minutes he knows how to recognize defeat.

"David. David, I'm sorry. I don't think I can, uh."

"...oh."

David's hand stops desperately groping at Joe's inert crotch.

"I'm sorry." Joe utters.

"Like, it won't...?"

"I don't think so. Not tonight anyway."

"Oh."

"It's those meds I take."

Not like anything was happening down there before he was prescribed them, either.

"No, I get it. Meds fuck you up, they do."

David would know. Joe can feel his ribs underneath his fingers.

"'S not your fault." Joe mumbles. He feels bad. It's not for lack of wanting this. "I can— do it for you."

He’s never touched another man there beyond a cheeky tug but it can’t be much different than touching yourself.

"I'm fine." David whispers in his ear. "I'm tired, anyways."

He pulls him in for another kiss and though Joe still feels pretty terrible, the way David is petting his head and kissing his lips makes it feel better.  
They roll onto their side and keep kissing lazily and Joe's head is swimming, and there's David, the warmth of his hands and body, the softness of his hips, and the slow cloud of sleep enveloping them.  
Nothing else matters.

 

——

 

When David slowly drifts awake, his neck is the first thing he feels.  
It hurts pretty bad. He must have slept weird on it, and now it's gonna bother him all day.  
He think about getting up and putting in his stretches, but his head feels like lead. He was never a drinker, but drinking after you've turned 30 — bad idea.  
Everything is awful, and he slept in his clothes, too. He's in a half-open button-down with no undershirt and he's pretty sure his slacks printed fold marks into his thighs.

The events of last night he can recollect, but not completely process. That's when he realizes that he's alone in bed. He looks to his left. There's a dent in the bed and wrinkled sheets when Joe must have been sleeping. David reaches over — the spot is still warm, and Joe's light pink shirt from last night is discarded further down on the bed.  
He must be in the bathroom.

David doesn't want to get up, but his mouth is so dry he'd kill for some water.  
Reluctantly, he rolls over, and gingerly gets up, and takes off his pants. He could use a shower.  
He drags himself to the bathroom — Joe isn't in this one, he probably went to the ensuite — helps himself to a cup of water, and runs the shower warm, stepping in when it starts steaming.  
Standing there naked, the hot water soothing his neck and back, he finally can think.

He doesn't know if it's relief he feels, but there's something large and calm inside of him that oscillates towards it. It feels like a curve in his life has been bending to this, like a statistic stabilizing over time, through ups and downs and slumps and hot streaks, slowly forming a line he can trace, something he can step back, look at, and understand as it stops and hits a wall.  
Hands on his hips, staring out at his life so far. Recognizing the patterns. Like a satellite view.  
It’s true what he remembers himself saying last night — he wishes he’d known, really known, rather than just cohabited with the uncomfortable evidence ; because he’s 36 and his body is in ruins and he’s tired already. He wishes he’d had the clarity of mind to take that step back before, wished he'd lets his hands touch other men elsewhere than furtive shower rooms and let his eyes love them fuller than stolen glances and guilty thoughts. Looking back, it was so obvious what his heart yearned for. From secret meetups after baseball practice in middle school to late night calls from New York to Miami.  
But there’s something ahead, something with Joe, maybe, as wild, as unrealistic as it sounds. And there's an ocean of certainty in his chest that offsets the earthquakes that wrecked through his life these past few years.

He usually can't hear anything when he's in the shower — realistically he shouldn't be able to hear anything — but the sound he does hear is traveling through the walls. It's loud and it's something akin to a crash, or a bang. David immediately shut off the water, and hears furious yelling.

"FUCK! FUCK! SHIT!"

It has to be Joe. Quickly David hops out, wraps his towel around his waist, and hurries out in the carpeted hallway, dripping water all over. It's coming from Joe's room.  
He doesn't bother knocking.  
Joe's kneeling down on the floor in the threshold to the ensuite. He's holding his wrist. Joe's swearing quietly still and he doesn't notice David standing behind him.

"Joe? Are you okay?" David asks, placatory as possible.

"Shit, fuck."

Suddenly Joe's voice is filled with tears and he cowers down into a ball, shielding his face from David's view.

"What happened?" David's eyes scan the room. Joe's slacks are on the floor ; there's almost definitely puke in the toilet ; there's a hole punched into the drywall above the sink.

"I'm sorry." Joe whimpers, forehead against the tiled floor. "I don't know what's going on with my head."

He's in his underwear and that undershirt from last night. David can see the full definition of his shoulder muscles, and the soft roll forming around his hips. He just wants to bury his face in that broad back, but now's not the time.  
He can figure out part of what happened from the clues Joe left : he definitely punched the wall, which isn't something Joe would ever do, based on what he knows and has learned about him. Joe thinks punching walls is stupid and childish. David ca, see _himself_ punching a wall, maybe, but Joe?

"Fuck." Joe sobs quietly into his knees. "What _happened_ to me?"

David doesn't want to spook him, so he crouches down next to him very slowly. He wishes he'd put on some underwear before rushing out.

"It's okay." He soothes. "It's okay."

Joe hiccups. He props himself up on his forearms, still hunched over against the floor, holding his hand. It seems to hurt.

"How's your hand? Do you wanna show me?"

Joe wheezes out another sob, and sits up for real. He doesn't exactly show David, but he lets him see.  
The knuckles of his hand are swollen and red, and a bruise is slowly forming underneath his skin.

"Can you move it?"

Joe nods, extending all his fingers. Well, at least it's not broken.

"It's gonna be okay." David repeats. "It's fine."

"David." Joe chokes out, hoarsely, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I almost hurt myself. It's not gonna be okay."

David's taken aback a little bit.

"Why not—"

"They should just put me down. I'm gonna hurt someone else some time and— and..."

"Wow." David grabs his arm. "Slow down."

"You don't get it." Joe gasps. "You don't get it, I'm— I can't help it. It just comes out, I don't know where from, I just— I'm not myself anymore—"

Jesus, maybe they both need therapy. Maybe they were both wrong over text, ragging on about how everybody's wrong and they don't need a shrink. Maybe both of their heads are messed up. They both got hit by enough beanballs to justify it. It's one thing to have an anxiety attack, it's another to watch someone else have one.

"Joe..."

"What if I hurt you? What if I snap and hurt you? You can't be with me. What if I _hurt_ you?" Joe panics.

"Joe. Breathe."

Joe plants his left hand down on his knee and tries to compose himself. David squeezes his arm comfortingly. There's a few minutes of silent inhaling and exhaling — David's getting cold in his wet hair — and then Joe shifts, and sits back against the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest, his throbbing hand pressed against the cold tile. He sighs.

"I'm sorry." He repeats. "I don't know what came over me, I... I had to throw up— crap, I didn't flush."

David just gets up and goes flush it.

"Thanks. I just, I did and then I thought about — about what next and something inside just..."

He snaps his fingers. David stands there in his towel.

"I... I just want you to know what you're getting into. I just... when Maddie and I split I..."

He takes another moment to collect himself, rubbing his face with his hands.

"You know why I retired, in the end? I mean, what really made me say, this is it?"

David shakes his head no. He's holding his breath.

"I was with my girls. We were watching TV on the couch, just cuddling. Just, normal Saturday night. I was on the DL for concussion symptoms."

In passing, the idea of Joe cuddling with his kids is absolutely adorable to David.

"Suddenly I just get this... oppressive feeling. I don't even remember everything. It just happened and then I was—" he gags for a second. "Just _yelling_ at them for no good goddamn reason they could understand. And had this... huge... breakdown... anxiety... thing... I just lost it. And they had to call their mom on the autodial. They're just..."

Tears well up in his big blue eyes again.

"They're so tiny. With their beautiful little faces and they just looked scared. Scared of me. I'd be scared of me too."

For a short moment, David's back in Virginia, in his parents' house, and his father is grabbing him by the arm. _"You're going to stop hanging with that hoodie or so help me god you'll regret it."_  
He knows what it's like to be scared of your father, but he can't imagine Joe ever doing something like this on purpose. It's not the same.

"I'm not scared of you." He just says, matter-of-factly.

"Yet." Joe adds, somber. "Maddie said that at first. I'll never blame her for changing her mind."

Well, that's just heartbreaking. David knows Joe's divorce was a mutual thing, but that must just hurt. That can't be good for Joe's self esteem.  
David tightens the towel round his waist, and takes a breath.

"I— look. I'm not Maddie. I mean I’m not as good as her, and I’m not your kids’ mother."

He crouches down again, face to face with Joe, their knees touching.

"I'm...” he sighs. “... Far from perfect, you know. I'm not always a pleasure to be around. You should have seen me after a bad game when all the media's gone."

"It's not—"

"The point is, you got flaws, I got flaws. As long as we work on them..."

Joe lowers his eyes.

"But what if it gets worse? What if it gets to a point where..."

He doesn't finish. They both know what he means.

"Look." David says, again. "There'll probably be one day when I can't move on my own anymore." It's hard to say. He's not really vocalized it before. He's read it in his diagnosis and prognosis report as the doctor tried out his best euphemisms, but he's never actually spoken it. "I told you. My body, it's just gonna fall apart worse. I'll turn into a burden."

"You'd never—"

David puts his hands on Joe's knees, gently, looking into his eyes.

"I'm damaged goods. That's on the label, you know."

Joe immediately frowns. David's not saying this out of self-pity, that's just how it is, but Joe clearly disagrees.

"Don't say that about yourself. That's not true."

David rolls his eyes. Wholesome bastard.

"What I mean is... we're both a little messed up, you know? We both know what we're getting ourselves into."

Joe motions towards the hole in the drywall, looking incredulous.

"A little? I just punched a hole in the wall like a goddamn nutcase. It's beyond—"

"Yeah, exactly. And I still want you if you want me." David asserts, feeling his heart swell.

They stare at each other, and Joe's beautiful eyes are watery still.

“I just don’t want this... aggression, this... anger... inside of me. That’s not me. I just want it to go away.” Joe murmurs. “I thought the meds would help but they don’t."

That just about shatters David’s heart. There's so much vulnerability in what Joe's confessing. He can't even look at David in the eye anymore.

"I want you," he whispers like a secret, "but I don't want to hurt you."

David wants him to repeat it ; wants to hear it again, 'I want you.' He wants to hear it a thousand times every day of his life.

"You won't." He assures.

"You don't know that—" Joe says, like he's on a loop.

"You don't either—"

"But it's happened before and it'll happen again! What if we get into an argument and I start screaming at you when I don't mean to, what if I— what if I turn violent, what if next time it's not the wall I punch? I could take it out on you, without even realizing! I'm not in control, David!" Joe yelps. "It just comes out and I don't know— I don't know how to stop it!"

And the tears are rolling down his cheeks, pooling at his mouth corners, and David’s heart aches, he just can’t take it, he wants to yell at Joe that he could never do any of that, but the truth is that David doesn’t know ; he doesn’t know what Joe’s feeling, he hasn’t been in his head. What he knows is Joe doesn’t _want_ to do any of that, otherwise he wouldn’t be sobbing, sitting curled up on his bathroom floor. And that’s the tipping point.

“Joe.” David whispers, offering his hand. “Joe. Here.”

Joe grabs it without hesitation and David starts rubbing a soothing little circle into his thumb.

“Joe.” He says quietly, trying to find the words for what he’s going to tell him. “You know, I’ve been thinking, this week, and I might see a shrink. To help.”

Joe looks surprised through his tears.

“But you said—“

“I was wrong. I think I need it.” He states, sheepishly. “I think the whole thing’s been harder on me than I thought it was, you know. All week I couldn’t even tell all I wanted was for you to touch me because I thought I just missed baseball.” He continues, feeling even more naked than he already is underneath his towel.

It’s true. He needs help with the transition. From baseball to not baseball. From a body that works to a body that, well, doesn’t. It's hard to admit but if they're going to do this, he'll do it for Joe.

"Now." He settles, carefully. "How about this. I go, and you go to someone too. We do this together, you know?"

Joe's face looks... discomfited at the least.

"But—" he babbles.

"I'm not scared of you. At all." David assures him, grasping at words. "But... you're scared of yourself. You obviously are, you know, and I wish I could help but maybe that's the only thing we don't have in common, you know."

Joe lets out a small sob, and David squeezes his hand. He's really cold now, droplets of water rolling down from his damp hair, but he holds back his shivers.

"I don't want you to be scared, you know. So I go to a shrink, and you go to a shrink, and you won't be scared of hurting me. Deal?"

Joe doesn't answer for a while. He just sits there, sniffling. He looks like a big, hairy child, hugging his legs in his underwear, and David's eyes catch on the scars on his knee, dotted across and around his kneecap.  
One more thing he likes about ballplayers — he's not the only one with scars.  
Joe, finally, lifts his eyes from his own lap, and sighs.

"Okay." he murmurs. "You're probably right."

"Yeah?"

"Deal. Yeah." A smile curls his mouth, and he squeezes David's hand back.

His face is still red and tear-stained, his right hand still swollen, but it feels, to David, like everything's going to be alright.

"Com'ere." Joe mutters after a while. "I'd kiss you right now if I hadn't just thrown up."

David can’t help but laugh, and leans forwards, letting Joe pull him into his arms. He rests his head on his hairy chest and listens to Joe’s breathing as he leaves a peck on the side of David’s head.

“I can’t believe this is happening.” Joe mumbles.

"I'm glad it's happening."

A comfortable silence.

“I should shower. I smell like shit.” Joe cringes.

And David laughs, and as he puts on some clean clothes and listens to Joe showering, he thinks about the swollen hand, and the subdued sobs, about the unknown and everything that could go wrong with what they're getting into; but all he can focus on is the tune Joe's humming over the sound of the droplets hitting the floor.  
And he really believes it's going to be okay.

 

——

 

David's still tired from last night and he's almost asleep again when hears Joe step back into the bedroom.  
The bed is fresh and done, contrarily to David's which is wrinkled and smells like a pair of wine-imbibed 30-somethings. It smells like detergent and lavender. The linen is soft. In his clean t-shirt and pajama pants, David lounges on it, eyes lidded and tummy up, like a lazy cat.  
He barely moves and doesn't open his eyes when Joe lies down next to him, taking in the scent of the nice apple shampoo again, still and content.

"You always smell so good." He mumbles, unable to help from smiling.

He hears Joe chuckle.

"You've said that a couple times. I think you're really obsessed with my shower gel."

"Hmm. Maybe I am." David teases.

"Why don't you come closer then. You'll smell it better."

David opens his eyes, scoffing at Joe's boldness. He rolls onto his side, and oh, Joe's lying there bare-chested, beads of water still caught in the thick hair across his pectorals. He's got a certain kind of smirk on his handsome face, like he knows David's going to stare shamelessly now that it's allowed, his eyes gliding down Joe's furry stomach to his boxer shorts, unrestrained by the usual fear of staring.

"Oh." he utters, stopping on the spot where Joe's happy trail plunges down into his waistband.

"C'mere." Joe coaxes.

David bites his lip, his stomach making loops. He can't hide his eagerness as he crawls closer to Joe. His body is so warm, his chest so soft as David nestles against it. Joe throws his arm over his hip, and David feels... safe. They lie there, all pressed together, for a little while, and David almost drifts back to sleep again. Instead, he feels Joe gently tangle his legs with his, hooking his heel behind his foot. It's so strange and intimate, in this fuzzy mist of half-somnolence, how Joe strokes at David's back, patting and rubbing little patterns in his waist. It tingles and prickles, makes David want to move, to squirm, to kiss. He thinks about last night, the hot mess of touch and groping, and a shiver runs up his spine, heat rising at the bottom of his stomach. He hardly notices that he's been kissing at Joe's chest, and that Joe's holding his waist nice and firm now, when his lips reach up to catch Joe's mouth.

They kiss soft and languid, fingers denting each other's flesh. Their softened bodies are knit together and radiating heat, skin growing damp again. David opens his mouth and takes a wet breath against Joe's plump, pink lips, hoarse and short and panting already, ablaze with need. Need to touch Joe, need to be close to him. He can feel himself getting hard against Joe’s muscular thigh, and that’s just about the hottest thing he can think of ; it just gets him more worked up.

For a second they pant, foreheads pushed together, before Joe takes back control and rolls David on his back, straddling him. His big hand strokes up David’s thigh, sliding underneath his loose 2017 Spring Training t-shirt, pushing it up to reveal David’s naked tummy. His fingertips are rough, rasping against David's skin, and he feels impossibly sensitive as sweat starts to bead at his hairline and armpits.  
It's nothing like the sex David's had before, or even a quick blowjob in the showers. Joe's all over him, bigger and stronger than he is, fingers roaming all across his chest. David's at his mercy, shivering and breathing hard, the grazing of his touch raising goosebumps on his skin.  
It's like nothing he's ever felt before — and he _likes_ it.

"Joe." He moans, inadvertently.

"Shhh." Joe soothes, and brings their lips together again. "Easy."

"Joe." He mumbles as Joe's hands grip at his waist again. "Joe."

He's getting so hard in his flannel pants now, and he'd be embarrassed if he cared, but he doesn't, because Joe's so desperately hot, his mouth is so warm, his hands so good as they furiously kiss, and god, David can't keep from writhing underneath Joe's huge body, bucking his hips for contact. He feels like a goddamn teenager.

This is what he'd been yearning for all those years, what his bedtime fantasies had been grazing and censoring for him ever since he was a high schooler : that confused tangle, the smell of sweat and the taut muscles and the swell of Joe's ass as he reaches up and shamelessly grabs at it, fingers digging down to pull him closer.

He brings their hips together and they're grinding now, David's dick noticeably pressing against Joe's tummy. The friction feels amazing, makes him keen into Joe's mouth, and though Joe's still limp, he's rocking enthusiastically against David's thigh. He feels crazy and young and on fire, with Joe's fingers in his hair and the soft fabric rubbing against his flesh. He loves this, wants to sink into the feeling, his mind freewheeling, and oh how much he'd missed this, how much better this is than his own hand.

Joe tugs softly at David's hair and his mouth leaves David's, trailing dirty kisses down to his jaw, and up at his earlobe and along his neck, and it lights a trail of fire on David's skin, makes him jolt like he's scalded. Joe moves down to his shoulder and David _wants_ him so bad, squirms as Joe's teeth flash against his skin.

"Fuck..." he whines. Joe just keeps nibbling, leaving little bite marks in the crook of his collarbone, pulling at the collar of his t-shirt. He can feel a little smirk in Joe's kisses, and it's ravingly hot, the idea that Joe's toying with him, teasing out his pleasure.

He can't keep from whimpering when Joe rolls off him. He almost reaches down to palm himself but Joe keeps kissing at his shoulder wetly, an arm wrapped across his chest and a hand hooked on his waist, big thumb rubbing against his nipple. He nuzzles at the side of Joe's head, at the slightly damp hair, trying to catch the shell of his ear with his teeth, hand holding tight onto Joe's muscular shoulder, but Joe tugs at his shirt and licks a hot, wet stripe along his exposed neck, and suddenly David's a pool of gasps and shivers.

"Shit." he utters. "Shit, Joe..."

He's all limp and useless still as Joe effortlessly lifts him to his side to move his kisses to the expanse of his nape, and down to his back. He bunches up his t-shirt to drag his lips across the scars the surgeries left, so _earnestly_ that David almost yelps in shock and emotion ; Joe's kisses line his shoulder with such affection that, although he can't feel much on scar tissue, he's shuddering with it. He feels so loved in that second, worshipped almost, that he wants to give himself up entirely to Joe, just let him do whatever he wants to him and oh, his hand brushes against David's crotch and he jerks, his mind emptying.

Joe's kissing only grows more frantic, and he's spooning David now, his arms tightly wrapped around his midriff like he owns him, his leg locked over David, his deep breath blows on the back of David's jaw. He's trapped, all wrapped up in the bigger man's embrace, safe and feverish, rubbing himself down through the flannel with the heel of his hand.

The skin of his bared back sticks with sweat to Joe's soft, hairy stomach, and Joe reaches down, pushing David's hand away. David's hard-on is tenting the soft plaid print and when Joe wraps his fingers around it, the fabric seems to hug every detail of his dick. It's a strangely chaste feeling, the way Joe is grabbing at him, and his fingers are big and warm, and David could just die because he just needs Joe to move, to squeeze, to do anything. But Joe seems content to just hold David's cock, feel the weight of it, drawing his thumb agonizingly slow along the head.

The pace of his kisses slows, and he's nipping at the crook of David's flushed neck languidly when he finally starts moving his hand. And David is lost.  
Joe is _good_ at this. He reads David's little jerks and twitches like a book, and although there's something hesitant about the way he's touching him, it's so broad and frank and tender that he has David quietly moaning his name uncontrollably.

He needs this, needs the rough strokes of Joe's hand through his pajamas, needs the pressure of his fist around him, needs the experimental, playful prods of Joe's thumb, drawing the most shameless sounds out of him. And there's Joe's hot, large body all pressed up against him, his hips rocking against his ass reflexively, and it feels so dirty and so right, David feels so debauched and helpless and dazzled with lust. He can't keep still, it feels too good, and he's squirming in Joe's embrace, arching and jolting with his movements, his heel jerking and his toes curling against the sheets.

He know he won't last long, not with Joe's teeth tugging at his earlobe and his hand speeding up and the fact he hasn't done this with someone for a long time.  
He feels it coming, feels it rising in his stomach, and he's starting to see stars, anticipation running down his limbs, making him flail in fits, his breath stuttering.

"Yes, yes, _yes_ —" He moans, kicking his leg uncontrollably.

And Joe's large hand is covering his throbbing cock and it all washes over him. He throws his head back and comes hot and hard in his pants, letting out the most obscene noise, hips bucking spasmodically. Joe holds onto him through the aftershocks, letting David whimper in pleasure, his hand gripping at Joe's wrist.  
It takes David a few more seconds for the blurriness at the edge of his vision to disappear and for him to catch his breath.

"Fuck." he mumbles, feeling post-orgasm somnolence overtake him.

He lets himself go limp in Joe’s arms again, Joe’s hand leaving the wet spot at the front of his pants to stroke up and down his side soothingly. David is so caught up in his comedown he barely notices the hard lump pressed against his ass.

“Oh.” He hears Joe breathe out. “Oh...”

He feels Joe softly thrust his hips, and, in the fog, realizes Joe wasn't taking care of himself while he was jerking him off.

"Lemme help." He mumbles, pushing himself up on his elbow. His neck feels raw and sore ; he's gonna have his share of hickeys.

"Wait." Joe whimpers. "Don't move."

He thrusts again and David can fully feel it now, sliding underneath his ass though it's trapped in Joe's loose boxer shorts. Joe is hard, and he's definitely a grower, because he doesn't remember anything that arresting in the showers, and holy crap, this feels strange. His ears are still buzzing and Joe's holding on to his hips and softly humping his ass, making the quietest little sounds.

"David..." he lets out, low and guttural.

"I wanna touch you." David pleads, already imagining watching his own fingers wrap around Joe's dick, which would probably get him hard again if he wasn't spent and in his late 30's.

His words seemingly go straight to Joe's cock, because he give a jerky, vigorous thrust against David's thighs.

"Sorry!" He gasps, but doesn't stop rutting against him.

"Let me help." David repeats, pushing his ass back against Joe's dick a little, which tears a small moan from him.

Laboriously, he rolls onto his back, his body heavy and weak still, and he looks up at Joe.  
His lips are swollen, his face red, his erection bulging like a pole in his underwear. He's grabbing at it like it's going to disappear, and David snakes his arm around joe's shoulder and underneath his neck, pulling himself closer, and brings his free hand to Joe's crotch.

He loves how heavy and thick Joe feels in his hand, loves the way the cotton wrinkles, loves the glimpses of flesh he can catch through the fly.  
He looks up into Joe's blue eyes, squeezes his hand around his cock, and it's like he flicked a switch. Joe's whole body jolts like he's been electrocuted, and he yelps. His cock twitches in David's hand as Joe whimpers and pants like a first-timer, eyes tightly shut.

"Shit!" He squeaks. "David. Shit!"

His shoulders heave, and to David's dumbfounded surprise, tears well up, and roll down his cheeks.

"Shit." He repeats, his voice thinning as his hips lurch one last time.

They lie there for a few seconds, Joe letting out a few small sobs before sniffling and wiping his face.

"Are— are you okay?" David finally manages to ask.

"I'm fine." Joe nods, rubbing his eyes. "Phew. Okay."

He sighs, and gathers himself, grimacing the tears away. His silver buzzed hair glistens in the dim light, and he pulls David in, hugging him close against his chest. They're warm, and sweaty, and sticky, their breath damp and heavy.

"Sorry." Joe mutters, burying his face in David's hair. "I hadn't... well, it's been a while. Shit, you're so hot."

"You mean you hadn't come in a while?" David asks, still troubled, though Joe's burrowing nose and tender hands make him want to give in and drift to sleep again.

"Can't even get hard most of the time." Joe mumbles sleepily, clearly not in the mood to talk about it. "God, you're perfect... you were perfect." he rambles dreamily.

David's heart swells at the flattery.

"Shut up." he murmurs with a smile.

"You got the cutest moans."

David chuckles and nudges him in the side.

"Okay, Weeping Beauty."

" _Shut up._ "

"Asshole."

"I loved it."

"It was awesome."

"Yeah."

"We should do it again. I mean not today. Tank is empty." David mumbles.

And the winter light is softly filtering through the blinds, painting stripes across the room, as Joe pulls a throw over their slackened bodies. David closes his eyes, ignores the mess in his pants, and lets himself fall asleep in Joe's arms.

It's perfect and he doesn't want anything else.

 

——

 

Walking away from Joe the next day is the hardest thing David's done in a while.  
He wishes he could kiss him right there in the airport, have those big arms wrapped tightly around his waist one last time before the flight. But he knows that's not a good idea, not in plain view smack dab in the Twin Cities where once again Joe's big frame and shampoo commercial smile stick out in the crowd and draw curious eyes.

It's not like they haven't hugged for ten minutes back at Joe's house, it's not like they haven't said goodbye properly, but David wants to stay so desperately.  
He could stay, it's not a money problem, but they know, they both know they need time to think all of this over.  
It's not any easier for it.

So they settle for a short embrace, and some back slapping, a real baseball hug.  
So much has changed in just a week. In their friendship. In their lives.  
Joe ruffles his hair as they pull away and David just laughs and playfully punches him on the arm. Inside, he's just yearning for his fingers to stay tangled in there forever.

"Have a good flight. Text me when you land." Joe says, sheepishly, shrugging in his winter coat.

"Sure. And you drive home safe." David retaliates.

"I'll be fine. Get that neck pillow on right. Don't want it to lock up again. Okay?"

"Sure." David smiles.

"Okay. Well." Joe rocks back on his heels.

"Yeah. See you soon." David nods, his throat tightening.

"Call me, alright?"

David knows he should leave now. But he looks at Joe, and he sees his eyes growing moist, and it's too soon, god he just wants to stay.

"Come on." Joe waves him along, his voice faltering. "At this rate the plane'll take off without you."

David knows it's time to go. He softly taps Joe on the elbow, fingers lingering a bit longer than they should, and he turns around, and walks into the security line.  
He takes one last look back, and Joe's standing there, one hand in his pocket, waving goodbye.  
He waves back, and tries with all that he has not to burst into tears right there and then.

It's all so much.  
It's not just about Joe, because it was never just about Joe.  
Because it's about the past 17 years, and it's about baseball ; and it's about a 7th grader staring at other boys in the changing room, and it's about the dirt, the grass, and the sound of aluminum bats drowning out all the noise in his head until all that was left was red, green, and a man whose only love, whose only purpose, whose only thrill is playing a game that takes his whole body apart.

It's about fear, it's about love, it's about pain, god damn.  
And when David thinks about it, it all makes a lot of sense.

When the plane takes off and the Twin Cities flatten again like a pop-up picture book, he scrutinizes St Paul and imagines one of these ant-like black cars is Joe's, though he's probably home by now. He watches the grid of the city grow smaller and looks at all the tiny green squares, the little baseball diamonds dotting the town that watched Joe grow up, and he feels unspeakable tenderness through the tears falling in his lap.

He can think about it all later, about his dad, about his legacy, about the trip to Virginia Joe has promised he'll make, about coming to terms and coming out, about his brothers, and the fans, and the shrink, and the inexorable degeneration of his back.  
Right now he pieces all the miniature ballfields together, from his Norfolk sandlots to the Appalachian stadiums, from Shea to the Metrodome, from Target Field to Citi Field. Old and new, small and large, constantly living and dying and breathing into his lungs the sights and smells of his life-time.  
A patchwork of loss and yearning, of failure and love.  
Of believing, endlessly, that things are going to be okay, even though they rarely are.

He never did win it all. Neither did Joe. But they had faith, and in the end, David recognizes, it's the only thing that ended up mattering to anyone who cared.  
Maybe he won't win at this either, maybe this too will crash and burn, but he refuses not to try. Joe did forget something about what makes him who he is.  
He's an optimist. He won't let himself forget it.

And when he can't stand up anymore, when his body strangles everything from him, he wants to be behind home plate at the ballgame, and he wants Joe to be sitting by his side, and he sees in his mind's eye that everything will be alright.  
That every minute will feel like running, knowing the ball has sailed, knowing no one's bringing it back, touching every base deafened by the roar of an Arizona crowd, looking at the back of the jersey ahead of him — Mauer, 7.

When they pierce the sheet of clouds above Minnesota, the sky above is an impossible blue.  
Spring will come again.  
And with it, they both can start anew.

**Author's Note:**

> It's done! My longest fic since probably 2012. Back when I still wrote fic for real. Not gonna lie : I'm proud of this. Thanks to eovaldi for beta'ing it and for the help writing the bathroom scene. Pls leave a comment if you liked it!
> 
> I made up this ship as a crack ship but then it turned out they _actually_ really vibed and were close at the WBC — and were linked by retaliatory HBPs since rookie ball : [click click](http://www.startribune.com/joe-mauer-shares-a-career-kinship-with-the-mets-david-wright/493363351/)
> 
> I transcribed the press conference scene directly from [David's actual retirement press conference](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g0bsQxWP_SM)
> 
> Title and summary from Stevie Nix by The Hold Steady, a band from Minneapolis, and absolutely not the kind of goody two shoes vibe that fits Joe nor David.
> 
>  
> 
> **Pleeeeaaaase leave a comment if you liked it, it would mean so much!**


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